


Subtle Arrangements

by Deathbyhook, stbartsmolly



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst, Eventual Romance, F/M, Mild Gore, Murder Mystery, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-04-04 18:15:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 21,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4147908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deathbyhook/pseuds/Deathbyhook, https://archiveofourown.org/users/stbartsmolly/pseuds/stbartsmolly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and Molly find themselves in an arrangement that benefits all; marriage. Sherlock has filed his wife as an insignificant fact of life, that is, until a serial killer surfaces in London... The prime suspect? Is none other than his small and mousy wife, Molly Hooper-Holmes. Sherlock is the only man in England who can prove his wife innocent... or guilty. And so, as they say, the game is on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Fascination of Sconces

**Author's Note:**

> First and foremost: THANK YOU Danielle (stbartsmolly) for being my beta, I owe you for every coherent sentence that presents itself here! Otherwise I'd lose any sense of fluidity. You're amazing!
> 
> Now...
> 
> I wanted to expound upon the Molly we see in Series 3. She is too fiery and intelligent to simply look over, or dismiss. I want to give credit where it is due, and it is my firm belief that that Molly was just waiting to come out. Well, I'm not going to close the door now! 
> 
> This chapter is however Sherlock "POV".... I do not own these characters.
> 
> REVIEWS???!!!! Maybe? :P
> 
> Anyway, without further ado, here is Molly Hooper in all her woman-glory! Enjoy!

It is unfathomable to think that Sherlock Holmes, master of deduction, could have missed all the obvious signs for which explained the true purpose of tonight's ball.

He could be excused. In this age, society is built on false pretense and social outings. London, Bath, Wales- the collective cesspools of the social elite. Sherlock has prided himself in only exploiting their dirty secrets as a hobby, rather than associating himself with them. He simply cleans their messes, not aiding in the creation of them. This is avoided spectacularly by excluding himself from the general seasons. Furthermore, it has kept him a bachelor. High marks for himself across the board. 

He'd deduced a ruse of some sort or another, but for something more devious and clever than this... Assassination perhaps, or some plan with the intent to impugn his reputation as consulting detective, or just the simple embarrassment of making him a side-show of the evening. Never, not in any realm of possibility, had he given a second's notice to the idea he was being introduced to the lady, whom he'd be wed.

But of course, he'd noticed his Gran's ring box sitting precariously upon his father's desk earlier that day as he was fetching from the study his favorite book of morbid dissections of the human skull. After all, his favorite pastime was honing every amiable skill in conditioning his mind. To know the exact size and shape and crevice of the corridors in which he'd built his mind palace was most important, and he damns himself quite harshly now for not letting that unconscious twinge that pricked his neck take hold of that fatal detail. He had brushed it off as fatherly sentiment. The man was much older now, and it was Sherlock’s 25th birthday after all.

His father had married young and his wife bore three sons. The family never talked of the eldest son. Mycroft and Sherlock proved just as disappointing in not procuring a way to elongate the stems of their rather unorthodox familial tree. Mycroft was and always would be asexual; an effortless art to which Sherlock envied to no end. Although, if he didn't lie to himself, he'd let his heart voice that he did feel lonely from time to time.

Thankfully Dr. John H. Watson came into his acquaintanceship some year or so before. He was a short-tempered, yet amiable type of bachelor. Loyal to a fault; almost at the cost of his own life. Just so, the sort of bachelor Sherlock needed.

His aforementioned exploitative nature brought him to milk every ounce of his friend's intolerance to dull life and natural affinity for the rush of danger, not unlike himself. If he was being honest, he'd let his mind tell you that John Watson was more than just a friend to him. Something beyond the labels of a friend and a brother. After all, what was brotherhood, if Mycroft were to be the example set of such bonds? For Sherlock to call John 'brother' would be an insult. John, he'll warmly admit, is his companion. The very same companion he'd presently hope to asphyxiate and whose body he wished to dispose of quickly and discreetly.

"Come now, Sherlock, this was inevitable. Just be nice, for your parent's sa-" John was not impervious to the utterly disdainful glare set his way. "--Okay, for her sake."

Glare.

"Deduce her and tell me she's any more pleased about this than you are, Sherlock."

So he did, but not before a curt nod of acknowledgement to his parents. They stood near the exit of the ballroom to make sure his escape was somewhat inconvenienced. Not that the hideously frivolous petticoats and whipping coattails weren't deterrents enough. There were several grand windows, however, unfortunately paired with several uncomfortable drops. Rather than deal with unnecessary physical excursion, he chose to exercise his mind. Ignoring how their parents were making formal introductions, he stared at her, beginning the analysis.

She was small and plain. Mousy brown hair that was plaited rather Celtic-like away from her face. An intricate fashion for so simple a woman. She looked uncomfortable and it was clear someone else had dressed her, by way of her fidgeting and not-so-subtle stretching of her sides. Interesting. Her eyes were brown and she neither looked like her father nor mother—no, not mother, step-mother who was once simply her aunt. From her frown lines, it was easy to see her mother died three or four years prior. Her father happy to have found a distraction, as evidence by his petting hand on the other woman’s lower back. He must have loved his wife dearly to not only wait so long, but marry her fraternal twin sister.

His parents gestured to the spot in which he stood, and the newly arrived guests obligingly followed with their eyes. She looked at him then and the proper etiquette vanished from her face. She was not happy, even less so than he.

John’s voice, as always in these moments, was suddenly too close. “Be good, Sherlock.”

"Perhaps this time I shall,” Though he would make no attempt to keep his word. He'd be damned if he noticed John give a little start. As hopeful as John was, this small action shrunk the possibility further, until it was a pin on a wall in his mind palace. This was a new room, and he couldn’t be bothered to identify who he was reserving it for.

He and his companion made their way across the dance floor, accompanied by the obligatory shouts of congratulations. Sherlock glared at her and she glared right back at him, neither wavering.

She spoke first.

"Mr. Holmes, I am Molly Hooper. I'm g-glad to have received an invitation to your celebratory event. Your 25th birthday?" She smiled now, only for the parental observers.

“As the banner behind would inform y—” John kicked his ankle and he choked on any furthering of his retort. This particular habit of reprimanding his “not good” behavior was the only reason his parents acquiesced to John’s presence. Despite the apparent improvements John has brought to Sherlock's demeanor, they'd hoped their son would have gained a more self-sufficient habit. John would not be around forever and this left an unanswered variable that when John did leave—a ‘when’, not an ‘if’—their son may not be able to resist the throws of narcotic bliss.

He nearly rubbed the growing bruise, but could not bring himself to fuel the smile growing in her eyes. And he definitely ignored the slight hint of admiration he felt upon noticing that she found his pain amusing. What an unorthodox creature. She'd fit perfectly into their family— He wasn't to further his perusal of that notion.

"Sherlock Holmes," He held his hand out to her. He almost shook her hand, which she seemed oddly pleased about, until her stepmother tutted at the inappropriate gesture. A lady's hand was to be kissed by a gentleman, not shaken. The reproving expression was not lost on him. He kissed her hand like he ought to, but his next words made it quite clear he was no gentleman.

"She'll do well as a wife. Though I make no silly promises to be a good husband. When shall the ceremony commence?" He spat out with a raise of his eyebrows, much to his parents’ chagrin and her parents’ outrage. He assumed she too would be outraged by his bluntness, but something sparked in her eyes just then. Something inexplicably foreign to the plethora of reactions he’d evoked from others before. Is it anger, fury, passion? Whatever it may be, Sherlock Holmes was at a loss for how to proceed. This left him intrigued, if not a little bruised where his pride was concerned.

"Th-there has been n-no mention of m-marriage, Mr. Holmes." She was stuttering and blushing furiously, he simply chalked it down to nerves. Every time he begins to think he’s seen something new, so far, she does something extraordinarily ordinary immediately after. He rolled his eyes.

“Yes, right. Where are my m-manners?” He started, mocking her stutters. “Molly dear, we are to be husband and wife, in law and under the ever-illusion of a God, you must find speech to be easier than that. Such a quiet mouse you are.” He looked back at John who shook his head. Not good. Definitely not good. He not-so-subtly shrugged and commenced his assault with his science.

“You have clearly been made up to be a woman of fine breeding and are not of the smaller country society in which my family chooses to reside as I have never seen you before. Despite being uncomfortable in your attire, you allowed yourself to be turned into a frivolous display of a wanton woman in need of wooing. Though I'm sure, actually I know, your parents were not informed that my particular interest of the opposite gender falls nothing short of indifference, you are also not pleased to be here. I'm afraid to tell you that our parents neither agree nor wish to continue with your maidenhood and my bachelorhood.

“Furthermore, your utterly ordinary mind and my intellectual prowess shall clash and we'll be doomed to a silent marriage with rivers of unspoken resentment, always. However, I think we may find a suitable arrangement despite all of that, don't you?"

He had noticed her back straighten then slope downward as his words had impressed then degraded her every ounce of self-respect. Good. He'd broken her resolve to marry, simply for duty. He'd hoped she see reason and he could continue his profession virtually without inconvenience. She turned from him. He had succeeded.

Or so he thought.

“He'll do. If it isn't too much of an inconvenience, Sunday will be a pleasant day for a wedding. And I wish to be married before I change my mind." She turned away from her parents and looked to him. “Oh darling fiancé, ‘wanton woman in need of wooing’? Compliments don't leave your mouth quite as well as you'd hoped, but we’ll work on that."

She turned for good this time, but not before he was able to catch her eye. Though he was shocked at her words, he still noticed the way her eyes shone with tears. Her parents murmured, rushed goodbyes to the Holmes family, and followed their daughter’s hasty retreat.

Sherlock mentally shook the shock away and turned back to his parents. They were not amused. He was not unaccustomed to their glaring as he’d been victim of it his whole life. He glared right back, showing his displeasure for their little plan to set him up with a fiancée.

John chuckled. Knowing Sherlock Holmes, he had been quite used to strange surprises, but Molly Hooper was something else entirely.

The Holmes family ended their sparring of eyes to look at the doctor.

“What? She had a point!"

 

John later explained, “If I didn't know any better, I'd think you're in danger of becoming quite smitten with Miss Hooper.”

Sherlock suddenly found the sconces of the room most intriguing. They almost shone violently, like the fire he saw in her eyes before she'd left. And for purposes of science, he’d chase this new-found sensation of warmth; purely for the benefit of science.

It seemed this summer season was to be filled with a mystery after all.

“John,” he said, turning to the doctor, “the game is on."


	2. A Curiosity of Declarations, Decomposition, And Dressing Gowns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly and Sherlock have an interesting honeymoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I intend to write one chapter a week, I said, I can do it , I said, I promised them, I SAID! 
> 
> Yeahhhhhh...... Sorry this one took so long. Schedules and such:/ and writer's block. Hehe, mah b!! 
> 
> (pssssst: review if you please??) 
> 
> ENJOY MY DUCKIES!!
> 
> (Hello, stbartsmolly here! I'm happy to be helping out with this fic and I hope you're enjoying it so far!)

  
The wedding wasn’t much to speak of. Both families attended, as per custom. Sherlock’s allusive brother Mycroft did not make an appearance as he simply abhorred the principal of marriage and Molly found this to be a distasteful reasoning, never mind the farce the celebration was.  
  
There was a brief mention to a second sibling and the mother was quickly hushed before she remembered herself. Molly simply brushed it off; there was an obligation to be finalized. Her father gave her away, regret flooding his eyes when he laid her hand over the groom’s. But with an affirming squeeze of her own, he peacefully returned to the side of her aunt. Her aunt’s eyes held tears, but it might have only been the dust in the air affecting her.  
  
Both the bride and the groom recited their lines and performed the necessary rituals of matrimony. In the end, the officiator called them husband and wife. Molly did not miss the look Sherlock gave her from the corner of his eye. They were both acutely aware what these titles demanded from them; though neither of them were much for appeasing general expectations. Man and wife did not have to be a consummated principle and both would die before admitting having considered otherwise.  
  
They mulled through the reception, drinking the wine and eating the cake. No sooner did their forks hit their empty plates had they been ushered to their honeymoon carriage; an incredibly awkward ride for the common people but Molly couldn’t bring herself to care.  
  
“Wife,” he meant to antagonize her with the spiteful pet name, she only nodded in response to urge him forward, “I hope you understand I do not expect nor invite any relations that often follows matrimonial vows.”  
  
“As you shouldn’t. And thank you, it is very kind of you.” she smiled. Molly knew very well he’d intended it as a rejection of her person. Again, she neither cared nor held the motivation to conjure the feeling of insult. She had hoped for this after all.  
  
However, he missed one very important detail regarding the subtext in his attacks. He was not her saving grace. She was his.

  
There had been rumors in London of a surly brute. A "consulting detective". She'd read enough of Dr. Watson's pamphlets to know the man was brilliant, and undeniably eccentric. Making him the most available candidate, and most reliable. The surface logic was quite simple. Marry a man to whom she could never give her heart or body, and one who would never ask anything of it.  
  
Though this plan would prove fruitful, success is inevitably coupled with disappointment. Just so, the honeymoon unveiled the unfortunate plethora of woes to be married to this Sherlock Holmes. He would (after only a day, mind) suddenly give way to fits of such alarming violence. Verbally, speaking; and when he was, in his words, "bored", any syllables meant to be appropriate speech condensed themselves to one, and exclusively as mentioned, bored.  
  
She wondered when it would be appropriate to make boundaries between them. Where his temper was permitted and where his words should be silenced. But a mere holiday of seven days isn’t enough time to gauge whether or not he was a violent man, aside from his verbal abuse.  
  
She had come to the conclusion, however, his harsh words came from a wholly ignorant place; he was altogether unaware that his so-called “deductions” were harsh and cruel; accepting them as undeniable fact. He simply said these truths convinced they were as worthy of praise as those read by a priest from the Bible. An altogether humorous form of entertainment for her, as she prefers. She would not allow him to further affect her as he had upon their first meeting.  
  
Molly had been utterly outraged, and inappropriately impressed. His deductions were impeccably accurate, exhilarating, infuriatingly brash, and pitiful. It was, after all, a blatant deflection tactic. And damn him making her cry. No, damn herself for caring! His smugness could have been excusable, for his head itself was a marvel of science and art, but the words that came from it obliterated any sense of redemption.  
  
She knows she's intelligent, accomplished even. She is thoroughly educated in chemistry, physics, philosophy, and politics. She can honestly say, on her own, she can stand proud.  
  
Where she lacks pride, however, is in regard to her appearance. Molly is not vain by any means. It is merely a fact, she is plain. Plainness does not warrant any semblance of pride. But fortunately, her family has given her liberty to be both a lady and an accomplished scientist. Hopefully Sherlock may come to accept that of her as well.  
  
Molly’s social standing is essential. Despite having an occasional bout of stammering (her tongue disfavors disingenuous dialogue) she was a much respected lady of London society. Sherlock hardly held any social position, and was despised by those who did know him; having bruised the pride of men who felt inferior and the pride of women who wished to have been pursued. Their marriage was the best thing for both his career and her ultimate ambitions. Unfortunately for Molly, he regards her as a nervous fool and doesn't plan to take her seriously in the future. With an attitude like that, he had awoken her spite.  
  
It was safe to say neither spouse approached the matrimonial bed the entire honeymoon, unless it was to sleep. Sherlock slept fully clothed.  
  
To test their unspoken barriers, and to possibly pester her new husband, Molly spoke to him with civility, to which he responded bitingly. They may not like each the other but in order to gain his respect enough to allow for her own eccentricities, they’d need an equal footing. She needed to know exactly where she stood.  
  
“Mr. Holmes?” His fingertips were steepled under his chin. She mistook his quiet as a state of sleep, so to wake him she lay her hand gently upon his shoulder. He responded quite dramatically by throwing her hand away from his shoulder, sending a searing glare her way and standing from his chair.  
  
“What were you thinking?” he had shouted the question. “I thought I had made myself perfectly clear.”  
  
“Oh do calm yourself! I simply misunderstood. By that, I mean to say, I thought you were asleep. And I have never thought to approach with th-that as my intent!”  
  
She blushed furiously. She had not intended to make such a brash statement. Neither had he expected it, for he turned quickly away from her. Not quickly enough though, as she caught sight of his cheeks turning a lovely shade of pink. Her eyes widened at the sight.  
  
“Oh wife, I'm not an ignorant man. I know I am physically appealing, you have thought of it at least once since we have arrived.”  
  
The embarrassed pink tint of his face changed to an angry red.  
  
“N-no I have not.” Sherlock righted himself before turning to her once more.  
  
“We are back to the stuttering are we?” She held her tongue fearing she would stumble over her words again, giving him more ammunition.  
  
When she didn't reply, he sniffed and held his hands behind his back. “Right, out with it then. Why were you attempting to get my attention?”  
  
She shook her head. She had been debating whether or not to throttle him or to kiss him, anything it took to silence him. Instead, she spoke.  
  
“I wondered perhaps, if you would like to walk with me about the property. The weather seems fine, and seeing as we had not been properly acquainted—”  
  
“—A fact, if I may point out, that was entirely your doing, wife.” He raised his brow at her. She had to dig her nails into her palm to prevent slapping him.  
  
She breathed deeply, he was not going to get the best of her. “I was hoping, without expectation of much else, if we could pursue a state of civility. We will be married “‘til death do us part” and I would hope the experience until that point is not entirely unpleasant.”  
  
“Pleasant, unpleasant-who has the time? It’s all very boring. I have much more pressing matters than to play husband. It’s torture enough to be stuck here with a stuttering mouse and no way of release for my intellectual mind.”  
  
“Do you think I am stupid?”  
  
“How can I not? The only motive for a woman of a spinster’s age to hastily marry is that she is not accomplished in a matter other than plotting how to trap a bachelor.”  
  
“Oh, you detestable man! Have you ever considered that for all your brilliant mind can offer the world, it has only offered you an obscene amount of stupidity? You know nothing of who I am, or how much I have worked to be respected. Spinster age or not, I have my reasons for marrying you and despite your sense of self it has absolutely nothing to do with you. You repulse me Mr. Holmes. Good day! Don’t bother sleeping in the bed tonight. Though I doubt that is much of a punishment.”  
  
With a swish of her skirts, she left him standing there without looking back. 

  
She neither cried, nor shouted for the rest their trip. She continued her approach of kindness; her mother would have been disappointed had she not. This of course did not escape the observations of Sherlock. Though he would not affirm it, he did refrain from insulting her too often.  
  
They returned to the Holmes’ home. For a fortnight they were to receive guests, and their gifts of well-wishes for the newly-weds. Molly knew very well how to smile and make it seem genuine, though her stuttering would appear when an astoundingly horrendous gift was placed before them. For example, a ceramic ornament set of live-stock one would find on a farm painted in the loudest of fashion, was such a gift. Molly and Sherlock, then, made their first agreement of marriage, the set was to be thrown out as soon as possible.  
  
She had come to see a chaotic pattern to Sherlock’s occupation. When he was unemployed, he would find it necessary to perform obscure and horrifically offensive experiments. Thankfully the body parts that would be shipped to their home were kept in the cellar, though curiosity brought her to question whether a Frankenstein monster resided under their household. If no experiment could be held, his mood became sour and eruptive. When he was employed by the Scotland Yard, his favourite Detective Inspector being a Greg Lestrade, he’d be euphoric and almost always absent. A much appreciated reprieve.  
  
Molly would take the time of his absence to peruse his private study, examining the jars of preserved digits and eyeballs. There was even a severed head; one that nearly stopped her heart upon first discovering it. She would read his field notes, even read an entire study of some 140 types of Tabaco ash, to be identified if a particular criminal smoked a specific variation. He did, indeed, have a most fascinating and intelligent mind.  
  
One night while reading his notes, Mrs. Violet Holmes stumbled in after seeing a light flickering from the hall.  
  
“Oh, dear me!”  
  
Both she and Molly jumped. Molly felt as if she was caught in a heinous act, but Violet quickly waved off her defence.  
  
“Pardon me darling, I was put in a fright when I saw the light from the hall. Sherlock was not here, and I was for certain you wouldn't find his things worth interest. Seeing as how you both spar with the other.”  
  
Molly chuckled at this appraisal. Women her age cannot assume young ladies starve for knowledge. They only know of one life, that of a wife.  
  
“I suppose that is a sound observation. Though I find your son spars more with me than I with him.”  
  
“That is true,” Violet laughed inwardly. She had seen Molly only speak kindly to her son, who would thrash about in defiance, until his bride was forced to respond in kind.  
  
There had only been one woman in Sherlock’s life who received the courtesy of civility; his former governess and present housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson. He placed her even before his own mother. Being taken for granted as a parent, however, is not a foreign concept to any human. It is an eventuality.  
  
Violet has noticed one very obvious sign of hope for the newlyweds. There was something to be said about the way Sherlock looked at his wife. There was an interest there, something only Sherlock’s mother would understand. Nothing approaching that of lust or romantic, but simple and unadulterated interest. A wonder all on its own. One other person once held Sherlock’s interest, Dr. Watson. They've come to see a brotherly bond form from the acquaintance.  
  
This young woman, upon their first meeting, stood firm against Sherlock’s biting tongue, and has thereafter. She holds a confidence behind her humility that may be symptomatic of an impressive intelligence hidden behind plainness. She was plain though she was not altogether un-pretty. Her cheeks full, brown eyes beautifully dark, and her complexion fair and uncommonly clear. She only lacked femininity. Though that may have been from the lack of an attentive mother. Her step mother, aunt, seemed detached and self-absorbed.  
  
Molly was wholly separate. Most likely echo of her mother’s spirit. Violet looked forward to exploring this intriguing creature. In fact, she’d not wait on ceremony. Sherlock would undoubtedly keep his wife preoccupied with bickering.  
  
“Molly, tell me about yourself. The only knowledge I have of you is that you are an accomplished woman, who had an unusual interest in my unsociable son.”  
  
Molly reddened in this appraisal. She could concur that this situation was an oddity. The complexities offered even stranger explanations for this marriage. Though, it was highly inappropriate to discuss as such with one’s mother-in-law.  
  
“I had a brother, though he died a brave soldier. He most likely fought beside Mr. Watson; I’ll have to inquire upon that notion, when he and Sherlock return. I am plain. I am educated. I am direct. I do not wish for there to be pretence between us; family is important to me.”  
  
Realizing that she had been speaking to her own hands, Molly lifted her eyes to look at the older woman. She had a soft smile on her face and Molly let a small smile grace her own lips.  
  
“You astound me, young lady. And I dare say, Sherlock has benefited greatly from this union. I may go so far as to say, you may become a genuine companion for my son. After all, he does look upon you as I have never seen him regard anyone before. Not even Mr. Watson.”  
  
Molly sat up straighter with this revelation. Molly wouldn't dare question the mother of her husband.  
  
Violet could see she had planted a seed, and only light watering would prove fruitful. She smiled and excused herself, “Goodnight my dear, there is a wool dressing gown behind the door if you’re to fall asleep. It gets a bit drafty in this room.”  
  
“Goodnight, Mrs. Holmes.”  
  
“Oh please, Molly, call me Violet,” she saw the sweet acknowledgement that Molly understood. She had officially given her the Holmes’ blessing. Molly was now their family.  
  
Molly had much to ruminate over at the moment. She could hardly concentrate on Sherlock’s notes. These particular notes offered vivid details differentiating the decomposition of human flesh in dry and humid climates. A most fascinating piece. Not nearly as captivating as the thought of Sherlock harbouring interest in her. She would be completely daft to think he had feelings for her. However, they may develop if he even had a mere interest in her.  
  
She decided to spend this time going through the memories stored away in her mind’s lab. Sherlock may have a palace, but she needn't the extravagance, nor the space. Labs in particular held her heart’s happiness.  
  
Her mind was filled with cabinets and each cabinet held different specific information. Wanting to go over the memories of her husband, she mentally opened the files she had of him. From day one, to the present, it was all there: first impressions, the noises he makes in his sleep, their arguments, the insults, unintended innuendos, embarrassing stammering.  
  
Molly found it incredibly conducive to surround herself with Sherlock’s things when conjuring up his person. She could almost feel him there. And she found herself almost romanticizing their memories.  
  
Eventually, she opened her eyes. She had fallen asleep upright in the chair. There was a robe draped over her lap, that she hadn't remembered covering herself with.  
  
It wasn't until she replaced the notes to their particular pile of strewn papers and she had returned to their bed chamber, had she noticed that Sherlock returned from London. She wouldn't fight the smile, she couldn't. And before laying her head on her pillow, she leaned over and very delicately kissed his mess of ebony curls. He stirred but turned towards her, mumbling something under his breath, something very similar to “wife”. She would see that as hope. Maybe she hadn't married such a beast after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS EXPECT A DRASTIC CHANGE IN TONE FOR NEXT CHAPTER! SH** IS ABOUT TO GO DOWN! and you're gonna love it:P
> 
> also please review or leave a comment, helps me feel important ;) jkjk heh


	3. The Happenings of Red Lips, Riding Trousers, and Hooded Gazes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something like a furious wolf is coming to blow down the Holmes' house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: there is gore in this chapter. Triggers may apply. 
> 
> This chapter is a game changer y'all! Enjoy :)

The Holmes’ home is by now, after three months of matrimony, quite acclimated to the chronic state of tension. A tension that was often only reprieved, as the servants couldn't fail to notice, by the not-so-subtle gazing of the spouses when the other wasn't looking. John was almost always smiling cheekily to himself. Today’s aggravation found itself acutely in the detective’s study.

The elder Holmes’ have thankfully taken a holiday to their smaller summer estate. The cottage was an easy reprieve for their frail nerves and thankfully less taxing on their bones as well. Unfortunately, Violet Holmes rarely witnessed her daughter in law have the upper-hand, a sight she would rather enjoy, which was exactly the case.

Molly stood before her meditating husband, waving an incredibly abused newspaper, with John in his chair beside her. He was little less than relaxed, gripping both arms of his chair with his bottom half-raised, prepared to bolt from the outrageous event.

Her exasperation regarded an article noting the apprehension of a killer in London’s papers. In one such article, she’d read about a detailed scuffle involving her own consultant detective who attempted to stop the culprit. Knives were drawn, and a gun nearly shot both he and John. The details regarding the case have been left from the papers. However, and rightfully so, she demands to be informed of every explanation possible as to the utter disregard her husband seemed to have for his life.

His behaviour the week following the reported occurrence, to the present, had further been detestable. A frustration she’d been unable to solve. This did not help her mood. John held sympathy for both his friend and Molly. Sherlock's bitter mood, as he suspected, came from the fact that the criminal killed two young ladies and working towards a third; all of which resembled Molly. Small, chestnut hair, and brown eyed with thin lips. He most certainly was not a master of deduction, but he could not have missed that observation. Currently, he observed the confrontation was peaking in aggravation.

“John, do not move from your post, I am nearly done speaking my mind,” her voice was quite firm, and his bottom submitted without hesitation.

Sherlock finally opened his eyes, clearly affronted by his wife’s behaviour towards such a passive associate. “What have you been fussing about?”

“Dear Watson, loyal friend to my spouse, may you update the consulting detective as to why his wife is fussing?”

The venom in her voice was not lost on either of them, especially when focused on the incredibly petty word. John did as he was asked, moving to the edge of his seat, but at Sherlock’s betrayed expression he silenced altogether.

Sherlock took the opportunity to stand; rivaling her own fervour.

“Mrs. Holmes, you will do well to keep my associates separate from our marital spats. John, do sit down, this conversation is nearly at an end.” John seated himself properly again. Sherlock resumed his scolding. “And, wife, you will do even better to quickly remember yourself. You are a woman of gentile birth and vast understanding. The way you are handling this situation shall not stand. It is beneath you. Now, since you and I are quite resolved on this matter, you may leave.”

Molly gaped her mouth like a trout; opening and closing, debating a retort. But if she wasn’t mistaken, Sherlock had just paid her a compliment. John’s own gaping affirmed this fact. She smarted at this, firmly set the papers on a pile of notes and made to hurry from the study. Her hand faltered on the door,however, before she turned halfway. She not entirely looking at her husband, who stood by the fire with an elbow propped and a fist under-chin, when she said:

“Perhaps, husband, you will do well to observe by and by, that there are people who would not wish for you to be harmed,” her eyes met his, and he stood straighter. His ears had not missed the subtlety of her confession. She was all too aware of the dangers flooding London’s streets. But she was still angered with him. She looked to John.

“Mr. Watson, I hope you have a room readily available at Baker Street—of course you do, what a silly inquiry—my husband will be staying with you for the duration of the fortnight. Good, evening.”

Had she a weaker nerve, she’d admit she saw Sherlock nearly follow after her. And had she a weaker nerve she’d admit that it gave her hope. But she couldn’t afford nerves. She wasn’t a mouse. She was most definitely a cat; cunning, lethal and determined. Feelings for her husband were not acceptable, they were not a part of the plan. This marriage was the perfect cover, and nothing could spoil her plans.

 

LONDON

The night was cold. Puffs of breath and vapor could be caught radiating from each body that walked the relatively empty streets. A slight breeze danced across thick skirts and coattails.

There were couples returning from walking-out, maids relieved from their duties, old women walking small children to their beds. Decent people, who sought out their respite.

Amidst these decent folks were another kind of people. People who spoil society, whose rest isn’t on their agenda. For whom a more sinister fate awaits.

An angry drunk, having just been thrown from a brothel, stumbled over uneven cobblestones. He remained unaware of a woman lurking five paces behind him. Her small thin lips, carefully smeared with red lipstick, peak at the corners. A satisfied hum in her throat. People have seemed to have vanished. It was just him, and her, then.

The man suddenly lurched forward into to the nearest alleyway. His bile goes untasted; his tongue too soaked with liquor. Vision acutely inhibited, even his eardrums only had capacity enough to hear the roaring of his blood. It explains why her swift attack of cloaking his head with a sack and giggling uncontrollably had gone unnoticed for several seconds.

Before he could react appropriately, her smaller frame had forced him down. She straddled him for several seconds. Then, he felt her lean forward. There was something off about her, but her words made everything else utterly unimportant. Her voice sent shivers over his entire frame, sobering him. Realization seized his heart.

“Survival of the fittest, darling.”

And then through the black cloth he sees a flicker of silver. He heard the whoosh of something heavy fly through the air. Then a crack.

After nearly twenty hard blows to his head, she was done.

His cranium nearly flush with the alley’s soil, the blood splatter thoroughly contained within the sack. Her hands opened the flap of his coat and wiped the weapon. Confident enough her clothes are untainted, she stood, dusting off the dirt from her skirts. She pulled and tugged at his clothes, clearing any indentations her body may have left on his. She smiled giddily.

Her gloved hand popped out a calling card and flicked it on his chest before she left.

The streets fogged over, and the only evidence anyone was left out, was the whistling of a happy tune. After all- it was only the beginning.

 

Sherlock served his penance at Baker Street. Not humbly, mind, but she had not expected more from him. He could be such a whining prat. Though, in his defense, husbands were not commonly ordered from their own homes. Thankfully for her, Sherlock was no ordinary man. He took his leave as gracefully as one Sherlock Holmes could; pouting, messily packing a case and stomping out the door.

He was home now. And she wished she’d sent him away for longer.

Cases have altogether ceased. Molly is not impervious to the source of Sherlock’s petulant mood. His need for mystery is a hunger, and one that she shares. A voracious need to feel important in ways that others may not be.

Having discovered a kindred spirit in her husband, Molly quickly set to employing servants to misplace items. Then she would commission her husband to discover their whereabouts.

It relieved the tension of the household when Sherlock had a mission, no matter how minuscule it may have been. Unfortunately, much to her chagrin and her favourite maid’s own embarrassment, the only item yet to have been discovered was a ribbon meant for her corset. The maid mistook it for a simple waist-band. Easily replaceable, so not too much of an inconvenience. Sherlock would surely notice the difference in purpose for each fabric. He simply knew things like that, and her confidence in his indifference to the female sex disturbingly comforted her.

Whether Mr. Holmes has in fact found the item was the real mystery. One she’d be more than comfortable leaving unsolved.

Their marriage had yet to be consummated. A fact they both praised unabashedly. But they seemed almost chronic to find themselves in horridly exposing situations. Either in verbal sparring, or ones such as the ribbon.

For instance, the day after he’d returned from 221B Baker Street, Molly passed his study on her way to the stables. She had not been told her husband was home, and she felt quite certain that Violet and Mrs. Hudson were scheming a matchmaker’s ploy to have she and her husband in unexpected places, alone.

“Oh! I was not told you were home.” Her hip cocked and brow rose, a challenge dancing across her lips.

Sherlock nearly responded with some remark following the vein of “not needing permission to come home” but the words lodged themselves firmly in his throat. Eyes widening in horror at the sight of his wife before him. Her brows furrowed in confusion.

_What the bloody devil is he loo-_

And abruptly, realization assaulted her senses.

She loved to ride. Always had. And she had once asked her beloved father, as a child, why women were subjected to the impeccably dangerous and tedious task of riding side-saddle. When he could not procure a coherent answer, she declared she would prefer the safety of riding western, in trousers. Then to assuage the horror upon her father’s face, offered sound reason that she would live longer and therefore a higher chance to produce a grandson. There was no further argument.

Since the age of 13, Molly has only ridden in trousers. At first, the legs were too baggy; having borrowed her brother’s attire. Then for her eighteenth birthday, and after her mother passed, Mr. Hooper gifted her with several fitted riding trousers. One of which she wore presently. Then a devious little thought came to mind. It wasn’t often Sherlock Holmes was surprised. She'd noticed his shock at the ball when she had suddenly abandoned stuttering and became the woman her mother raised. There was a semblance of admiration, mixed with mirth in his eyes.

Her brows rose, enticingly. Sherlock shook his head roughly, raising himself from his stupor.

“You ride… in trousers.” His voice was wavering between shock and offense.

“That is obvious, I should think.” She walked towards him. Riding crop in both hands before her, her hips’ movements bare to anyone truly watching.

The servants by now have accepted her eccentricities. She liked to serve her own tea, read incessantly, and rode in trousers. She treated them with enough respect that they kept her indiscretion private. Some of the women even admired her gall. And her rare trips to stay with her father gave them time to whisper; releasing their need for gossip. Violet overheard once, and hushed them on behalf of her daughter-in-law. She gently questioned Molly on the matter, who did not even attempt to feign a blush. Violet did indeed believe her son had met his match.

Now Molly stands before another baffled Holmes, and the hilarity is almost unbearable. He is even blushing.

“Husband, you have deceived me. Since before our betrothal I have taken you for a man who rebelled against society’s convention. Before me I see a blushing man. Do you wish for me to cha—“

“No!” He jumped up from his seat, blinking in blatant embarrassment. “I mean, I don’t care for conventional ideas. I do not care whether you wear trousers or not. Go! Ride!”

Her heart had nearly leapt from her chest. Sherlock liked her attire. A detail her poor husband’s dressing gown couldn’t even conceal. And much to her own horror, a detail her own body wouldn’t refuse if asked. She made to quickly escape.

“Molly,” she barely heard the whisper, but her legs stopped, “I am sorry. For the last case.”

When she looked into his eyes she saw his genuine apology awaiting her. Then he nodded. The exchange was over, for now.

In blur of a black riding coat and crème-leather covered legs, she made haste to her horse.

The ride was pleasant. The horse was strong. Mara was always a strong horse. As a fowl, she was the last to be broken and Molly liked her spirit. They almost put her down for her tenacity, but Molly’s command ceased any attempt. She proposed that she be euthanized for her own stubborn nature, if that were the standing judgement for such a creature. Her father always saw the wisdom she found herself sharing, though often unprompted.

They had a special system for their rides. Molly let her know the speed, Mara decided the destination. Luckily for Molly, the horse was clever, and a creature of habit. They hadn’t need to worry, ever. Until today.

“Whoa! Mara!” Molly yanked the reins. Her bum anchoring in the saddle, and thighs pinching as hard as she might.

Before them was a most horrid display. A wolf’s carcass laid on the path before them, torn and drowning in gore. Its insides were viciously ripped from its soft belly, legs bent in impossible angles only attached by feeble strands of tendons and veins.

It seemed to have fallen victim to its pack. Still, something about this made her shiver down her spine.

The skull was smashed. Almost buried in the soft soil. The laceration where the innards exploded about it, it was too clean. And the legs were merely pulled almost off, no bite marks elsewhere. The entire scene screamed one word to her: omen.

“Mara, go!” A snap of twigs from their left propelled the horse forward. Mara rounded a turn in the path, and they flew for home.

 

“Bored!”

“Mr. Holmes, if you do not learn to control your tantrums, I’ll have to resort to throwing out the festering limbs in the cellar.” Molly simply hadn’t the time for her husband. The profound disturbance she’d just discovered, needed to be investigated. Her words even lacked their usual teasing mirth.

“Wife!”

She could hear the unmistakable sound of bare feet stomping the carpet, and the swishing of his favourite dressing gown. It was the brown wool one, if she was not mistaken. Her tongue usually in cheek when she ventured to speculate the reason behind that fact. Today, her mind only really had room for the anxiety choking her. She’d deal with him, then collect herself. Perhaps she was imagining things.

She pivoted on one heel towards a sulking Sherlock. “Yes, husband?”

“You will find it wise to not misplace my experiments. They are of the utmost importance. Hardly any reason for you to take notice of them.”

“Yes, I wholly agree.” She raise both brow and eye to meet his equally annoyed look. “But perhaps if you practiced some self-control, your pathological need to thrash about will not drive me to such extreme measures.”

Her tone was sharp then. Her need to be alone almost palpable. He was smarter at this. She was never intentionally severe.

Despite this observation, his back straightened abominably and handsomely in defiance. “I don’t know why I expected you to understand, you don’t have a hobby or interest of your own that drives you with passion, except perhaps riding. Do what you will, but these ‘fits’ as you say, will not stop. I am in desperate need of release. Oh, and one more thing…”

The cape of his robe whooshed again, and in only a second he was back again.

“Your favourite ribbon, darling.”

Molly’s brows nearly invaded her hairline and her cheeks most definitely reddened. Checkmate. She hadn’t even known they were playing a game of chess. But he met her move for move, for the threat of punishment and the trouser debacle. The wolf was almost forgotten, especially when he handed over the silky trimming.

Molly did not notice Sherlock’s uneven breath, or his dilated pupils, or that they had stood hand in hand holding the ribbon far longer than necessary. Yes, indeed, he had met her call, and raised the stakes. She was formulating all sorts of responses when the bell rang, alarming the couple into action; hooded lids suddenly wide.

Sherlock practically ran for the door, happy for an escape from this horrific situation.

Molly flattened a hand over her ribcage. Her heart was thundered there beneath her fingers. And now she had two horrors to face. A maimed wolf, and the fact that she was falling for her brilliant genius of a husband.

“Sherlock,” she heard Detective Inspector Lestrade’s voice from where her feet had cemented themselves to the floor. 

Molly liked the inspector. Lestrade rarely visited their home, but he was a gentle fellow. Much like Watson, only he bore Sherlock's infuriating demeanor with much more silence. She had not decided whether or not that was out of wisdom or a need to withhold a boiling rage. Either way, for her, there was almost always an air of admiration for her forbearance of Sherlock as a spouse. Perhaps more, but Lestrade was a man of honor and respect. And an ally worth keeping. An ally she might have just lost. 

“Geoff, to what do I owe the displeasure?” Molly couldn’t be bothered to roll her eyes. Lestrade looked nervously from her husband to her, where she stood several feet behind.

“Sherlock, I am not here for you actually. I have a warrant to arrest your wife. She is to be questioned for the murders of Daniel Hastings, Joseph Burns, Jamie Martin, and three other young gentlemen.”

From her vantage point, Sherlock’s back tensed achingly. He turned to her.

“Well you’re one full of surprises today.” Without further discourse he widened the entryway, letting in several of Scotland Yard’s finest who cuffed her and not too gently escorted her to her impending judgement. Their faces unanimously declared one thing: guilty.

Somehow she knew this could only end in one way. Her death. Of course, she always said the day she fell in love was the day she’d die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE REVIEW! It helps us to feel important:) and next chapter is Sherlock's POV... shocking revelations to come; why exactly do they think Molly is the murderer?... Shocking revelations... Soon!


	4. The Tale of Trench coats, Teacups, and Tempestuous Women

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly could actually be guilty, and Sherlock may be a little more involved than he realized.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have not mentioned this yet, and I intend to go back and amend that fact, but I DO NOT own these characters- no, that privilege goes to the great S. Moffat and M. Gatiss!
> 
> this chapter is unbeta'd so please forgive any errors.

Sherlock usually felt secure in his coat and hat. He usually felt at ease on the cobblestones of London’s streets. But there was something irrevocably wrong about all of this.

His wife, Molly Holmes; small mousy vibrant woman, now sat in a holding cell of The Yard.

She had surprised him. And only one other woman had done so. But to think on _her_ too long set him into a fit of rage. A rage now bubbling in the pit of his stomach, lying next to his pride and unacknowledged scorn.

Irene Adler was an irreproachable force. An inevitability, after so many years of repressed emotional passion.

Ironically, he’d never met her.

Their romance was one of wit, and existed only in written correspondence. Their meet-cute being a debate over grammatical differences regarding the plural use of larvae via critical letters. Irene was a columnist. The first openly female writer of the London Tribune. She was bright, and a promising doctor of the sciences. He was partial to her fervor for forensic pathology. And before he realized, Sherlock Holmes, man of reason, found himself in love. Went so far as to privately ogle her sketched portrait from the paper that always accompanied her columns. Raven hair, and glossed lips that hinted at the saffron shade she said she preferred. An intimidation tactic that demanded respect from the opposite sex; a respect of sorts. Though she held no delusions regarding the true affect such a color held. From him, however, respect was something he was all too willing to give, along with his heart.

In an ill-attempt to prompt her into action; respecting her wishes to be the one to initiate in courtship. He could not remember his exact words, but he remembered well how her response affected him.

He’d received the letter the day before his birthday ball. She informed him that she would be engaged within a fortnight of him receiving her letter. His hopes for courtship were dashed completely. He had even planned telling John of the affair…

He later reasoned that fate favored him. She hadn’t even known his real name. He had adopted a pseudonym, his lesser known Christian name, William Scott- though he only signed W.S. In all, it was quite fortuitous they had not met, nor engaged in a formal courtship. He only wished his heart would agree. Or rather, that he could better ignore how much it felt.

Feelings were not his area. And having to marry such a woman as Molly so soon after such an ordeal, was the only reason he’d attribute to his uncomfortable attraction towards  
his wife.

After the first several weeks, Sherlock had deduced everything he felt he could about his wife. A fact that would obviously prove wrong later.

She was small, though shapely. A fact he’d often avoid browsing. She was bright, but in a normal way. A fact, that he’d often set contrast to his own intellect. She was gentle, yet she occasionally exhibits an impressive ferocity with her tongue. A fact, he’d often instigated for the thrill it would give him.

If Sherlock could bother to be honest with himself, Molly amazed him. From their first meeting, to the present. Which was precisely why he had done everything in his power to ignore her presence once the initial attraction snuck it's way in. The less he observed, the less chance she’d have of seizing his heart. Unfortunately, as history proves, the more adamant he would be to avoid something, the greater that something fights to be acknowledged.

“So Gregory, what evidence has been discovered that pins my abhorrently normal wife as the prime suspect of this crime?”

Lestrade muttered a few curses as some tea spilt down his waistcoat.

“Perhaps, tea was a poor choice?”

Lestrade huffed, “Sherlock, I am between interrogations and my stomach is in knots. I have just detained your wife for murder, I’m already apprehensive of how innocent she actually is, don’t push me.”

Sherlock smarted at this. Fixing the lapels of his trench. His nerves finally sent into a frenzy. If he were to lose Lestrade’s faith, Molly may indeed be found guilty.

“I do beg pardon,” Lestrade nearly spat out his last sip, “John shall be here soon, and I’ll be a bit more sociable.”

“Sherlock, you called me by my first name, apologized (in your way), and promised civility within a single minute. I am worried. Should I be worried?”

Sherlock’s eyes stayed forward. Lestrade knew, almost by instinct what he’d find if he followed the consulting detective’s line of sight. Molly Hooper-Holmes, prime suspect of several murders, was being escorted from an opened cell to an interrogation room. Her gaze was sullen, and her eyes have found the tiled floor uncommonly intriguing. The angles within her face, suddenly severe and inappropriately more beautiful.

“No, Lestrade. I believe it is I who should be afraid.”

Greg watched as his younger “colleague” made his way to the galley. He would not fight the spouse on the indelicacy of watching an interrogation of one's own wife; though he did in fact worry.

Sherlock was professional if not anything, and it was mainly due to the fact that he was both emotionally detached and thoroughly self-disciplined. However, Lestrade had a  
feeling today was to be the exception. Sherlock’s odd behavior notwithstanding.

“I hope I have your blessing to observe my spouse’s questioning?” His voice wasn’t assuming; it lacked its usual air of rhetoric. In fact, it sounded genuinely pleading. Submissive. _What on earth has Molly Hooper done to Sherlock Holmes?_

“By all means; you’re familiar with the etiquettes.”

Sherlock took a seat behind the glass. His favorite feature in the entire building. A new addition; a mirrored panel impeding the perpetrators’ vision into the galley.

Molly sat, literally fiddling her thumbs, in a wholly unkempt state. Her beautiful plaits from the previous day’s ride was now loose and fuzzy with loose strands threating to tickle her full cheeks; a restless night’s sleep. Her bottom lip caught between her teeth. Red from irritation and the evening-long assault of gnawing.

Greg took in Sherlock one last time, who looked to have forgone sleep altogether. His presence both here in The Yard, and somewhere else altogether. He nodded to signal taking his leave, and entered the room to sit with Mrs. Holmes. Questioning was to begin.

Sherlock watched Greg leave in his peripheral; his eyes would not leave his wife. Silently logging away both guilty and innocent data. He had to be calm about this. His heart simply had to regain its otherwise steady rhythm. It was only Molly.

Greg sat down in the seat. And Molly’s eyes lifted. They did not lay upon the Detective Inspector, nor the room around her, they found his; despite the double-mirror. She held Sherlock's gaze for as long as possible before answering one of Lestrade’s insipid questions.

It was this moment of infallible connection that Sherlock knew, Molly Holmes was to be the death of him. He was certain. Furthermore, he knew she was innocent. There was definitely an intelligence to rival that of a cunning serial killer, but her eyes were void of any malady or pretense. She was perhaps more honest than every human on earth in her gaze alone, without having to utter a word.

“Hello, Mrs. Holmes. Do you know why you’re here?” Greg fidgeted with his quill and pad.

“You’re ninnies of an investigating squad believe me to be the killer of several men.” She never left Sherlock’s gaze. Both smiled at the insult, “Though I must exclude you from the bunch, you at least have the sense to doubt the farce of evidence put against me. After all, it is most convenient, no?”

“Yes, it is. But for the sake of proving you innocent, hypothetically, what if the evidence that points to you was planted by you? Convenience of a narcissistic serial killer. They tend to like to be caught; put a face to the name, as they say.”

She breaks away her gaze then,“Then why would I feign innocence?”

“To throw us off; to best us.”

“I may be appreciative of my own skills and intelligence, but there is only one man made of such narcissism and capability; my husband.” Sherlock scoffed, despite the smile that snaked its way up his cheeks.

She was cheeky, and had clearly spent the night collecting data of her own. Her counters were too quick to declare much else. And every point she presented was valid. _Valid, yes… But true? Come on, Lestrade; what is the clincher?_

“Mol- Mrs. Holmes, do you know why we suspect you in particular?”

“I assume you have found my calling card.”

“Yes. For the record, may you state the name that is engraved upon the card?”

Molly sat up straighter, a small sweat beaded her brow. She stood abruptly and splayed her hands on the cherry wood of the table, and shuddered. Her face was downcast, but almost as if she felt defeated and prepped for battle, she huffed and looked the D.I. directly in the eye. A shiver ran down both his and Sherlock’s spine. A smile flirted at the corners of her lips.

“The name on the calling card, is Irene Adler.”

Despite his heart and every other fiber that screamed innocent, his head knew what she had just done. The hammer in her hand nailing a coffin shut. And only one word thrashed itself angrily about his mind palace, guilty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story and these characters are a product of both my hopeful wishes and personal assessment of each identity. I want Molly to be the Molly we see in HLV; the one who slaps the shite of Sherlock. The one who sees he is sad and not too afraid to say so. And the one who admonishes him in front of their friends, with a friggin Christmas decoration in her hair! And her dynamic with the rest of the characters is reactionary to who I've speculated she be if she were freer with that confidence we get a glimpse at. So canon is not a priority for me, though I do hope to stay true to Mark and Stephen's creations; obviously, otherwise there wouldn't be a need for a fic!


	5. The Tale of Trench coats, Teacups, and Tempestuous Women (part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly leads the interrogation.

_“The name on the card is Irene Adler.”_

The world was spinning and the heavens were falling. Molly Holmes had just confessed to murder.

She is Irene Adler. The small, stuttering woman he had married, the blatant columnist with a keen interest in pathology and female domination, and the woman who left her calling card on her latest victim’s corpse were all one and the same.

The murders were brutal and the murderer was clever. Each victim’s head was bludgeoned until it was practically turned to jam, with a rucksack thrown over the face to confine blood splatter. Nothing left behind but the faceless victim and the calling card. Sherlock was at a loss regarding how she had pulled that off.

Lestrade was having a hell of a time trying to understand that Molly—small and soft spoken Mrs. Holmes—was also the infamous Irene Adler, the prime suspect of serial killings.

“Mrs. Holmes, you are aware you are as good as guilty with a confession like that?”

“I am not.”

“How can you admit to the pseudonym, but not the murders now associated with such?” Lestrade was completely flummoxed and, to be frank, frustrated. She wasn't helping her case by being cryptic.

“Simple,” she said, relaxing into the chair again and carefully enunciating her next words. “I did not kill them.”

“Forgive me, but that's hardly an explanation. And it certainly is not an alibi.” She could see that the expression of confusion on his face was rapidly changing to one of frustration.

“Dear detective inspector, I am not your usual suspect deluded into thinking that giving you a false alibi will save my neck. Last week, I sent my husband away to Baker Street after little marital spat. As usual, when my husband is expected to be gone from home for long, I escape to my private loft to write. My household servants can confirm my frequent holidays, though they don't know the true reason for them.” She sat up straighter in her chair, enjoying the mixture of emotions play on the detective inspector’s face; frustration, confusion, understanding. “And it's _Doctor_ Holmes. I earned my degree in histopathology my twenty-first year.”

His eyebrows had risen at the declaration of her doctorate. He cleared his throat and with a small shake of the head he continued with the interview. “Why the ruse, Dr. Holmes?”

If Molly could actually see her husband, she would have witnessed the exaggerated eye roll he always gave when hearing an idiotic question. She was a little more forbearing, but just.

“My life, unfortunately, is validated by which rules I adhere to. While I do follow the law, I’m a bit more free-spirited where society’s personal views come in. Normality is what this town prefers but I enjoy being my own person. If I must go against what is seen as _normal_ to do so, I will.”

She pauses for just a moment, choosing her words carefully, before going on.

“If I were to be open about my profession I would be cut from society. Even my husband's work would take injury for it. And now, since you and your fumbling monkeys you call detectives failed to see the most obvious detail that proves my innocence, my career is crippled.” She gives him a look conveying her displeasure.

Sheepishly, Lestrade clears his throat again. “And what is the obvious detail?”

She couldn't help the eye roll. All of what she was explaining was extremely important but her patience was wearing thin. It needed to be explained from her mouth for the record. A stenographer was surely seated on the other side of the mirrored panel.

“I assume you went to my publishers at the paper to acquire the whereabouts of Miss Irene Adler? And that is where you happened upon my true identity?”

“That is correct. What of it?”

Molly leaned back, straightening out the creases in her trousers. Lestrade blushed. She was certain Sherlock did too. The surge of excitement she felt at that thought made her heart flutter.

She suddenly lost all sense and began to think about their proximity prior to her arrest. Her body flushed at the thought that with a simple tug, Sherlock's dressing gown would have fell open and revealed his half buttoned night shirt. Something her eyes had not altogether left unnoticed before the ride. Before the wolf—

She forced herself back to the present. A fresh thought came to mind.

“Dr. Holmes…” Lestrade lowered his voice and leaned in, “Molly, are you alright?”

She really shouldn’t be too harsh on the man. He was truly a clever DI and if Sherlock wasn’t such a threat to society when bored, she was certain Lestrade would only excel in his profession.

“Y-yes, where was I? Yes, right—you learned from my editors that I use that specific calling card. They are tailored specifically for me. And I am a cautious woman who would have no desire to expose my career. That I only use them for professional business. Are we understanding each other?”

She quite literally could see the cogs turning and clicking into place until the invisible light bulb above his head switched on with an almost audible _ding_!

“You'd never just carry the card with you. How do you propose the card found its way to the body?”

“The killer obviously stole it. I'm sure if you further question my employers, you'll find they either just fired a suspicious clerk or had a recent break in. I'm surprised they hadn't mentioned it when you first questioned them. Perhaps they had but your detectives dismissed it, hungry to arrest the murder of several men. Some dull brethren code I suppose…”

Molly trailed off upon noticing the look on Lestrade’s face. Both Sherlock and Molly couldn’t place his expression.

“Molly, have you noticed that you sound exactly like Sh—”

A sudden knock came to the door, followed by a voice. “Sir?”

Lestrade just looked at the woman seated across from him and smiled. Turning towards the door he called out, “Anderson! What is it? I'm in the middle of an—”

Anderson interrupted Lestrade again, still on the other side of the door. “Yes, I've been listening in. The publishers at Brown & Co. did in fact mention a break in. Several typewriters and such...”

“And you failed to relay this why?”

“Brethren code?”

A very indelicate snort sounded from Molly and she all but turned red. Leave it to Molly Holmes, née Hooper, to find hilarity whilst being investigated for murder.

Finished with the other man, the detective inspector turned back to Molly.

“Right. Well, seeing as I am the lead DI on this case, I think it would be unwise to suspect only you for these murders. And you have provided a solid argument, I cannot deny that. Besides, I think if I don't release you soon your husband will go mad and begin complimenting people. I believe the man has already suffered a psychotic break.”

Lestrade leaned in close as if to share an important secret and Molly could only do the same. Putting on dramatics, he widened his eyes at the whispered confession. “He apologized!” She smiled and he winked to show his jest, both knowing that Lestrade had wished for some semblance of gratitude or kindness from Sherlock for years. “I believe it is protocol to let you go if I have more than one lead.”

Molly felt a wave of relief. Her eyes searched out her husband's possible position behind the glass. He was more than likely in the corner, hands steepled. Weighing the evidence, going over every word, seeking the truth.

She was a doctor. A public figure due to a popular monthly published article. She was Irene Adler. She did not kill those men.

The interrogation, as abhorrently butchered as it was, was over. Her husband had been bored and she had just given him a mystery to solve. She could only hope she at least met a six. He wouldn't work as hard to prover her innocence otherwise.

“Am I free to leave now?” She hated how soft she sounded. The confidence had gone, leaving behind fear. Not of the suspicions, not even of her shattered career. But of the husband that awaited her. The one she knew her heart belonged to. Could Irene belong to him too?

“Yes, but Mrs. Holmes?” Lestrade stood, dusted off some biscuit crumbs from the lapels of his jacket. “Do not leave London. Am I clear?”

“Undoubtedly so,” and with a curt nod, one of resolve and preparedness, she made her way out of the room.

Sherlock was right outside the door.

\-------------------------------------------

His wife was a godsend! How Lestrade had failed to present this case to him before now was truly as appalling.

The interrogation itself proved how out of depth The Yard had been. Now he could take on the case. He would demand so.

A bloody ten! He never thought he'd see the day that he could take up a ten. And his wife—glorious, brilliant, infuriating, vixen—had just given him a ten!

He knew the first moment he saw her that she was more than the society-made woman she presented herself to be. And he could suddenly see in vivid clarity how she had evaded his perusal.

She hadn't brought any of her things with her. No medical books or journals. He presumed now, they would have been in her private loft this entire time. Months of missing detail; no ink stains on her hands to suggest writing, or ribbon stains on her fingertips to suggest manual maintenance of a typewriter. She knew he would have seen them.

He was both amazed at her tenacity and flattered by her appraisal of his skill. And acutely aware of where he stood in her trust. If he weren't so ecstatic about the hunt for the serial killer, he'd have felt the pang in his chest a little more deeply. But for Sherlock, that was deep enough.

He made his way into the hallway to greet his wife. The interrogation room door opened and he came face-to-face with his wife who blushed furiously the moment her eyes fell upon him. Clearly she can see his thinly-veiled wonder.

“Miss Adler,” he smirks. She can't help but choke out a chuckle, pleased to see he is pleasant with her.

And then he remembered her. Miss Adler. The woman whose mind he had so passionately fell in love with. The very same who rejected him and married another—who just so happened to be himself.

Mycroft couldn't dream to have elicited the kind of war that now waged within Sherlock. Stupidly happy? Yes. Pathetically bitter? Indubitably.

Molly was the very same woman who had scorned his heart. The only one, perhaps, who could break it again.

“Husband,” she toyed with his spiteful pet name, but she recognized the sudden coldness on his face. His expression of mirth changed so quickly, the pleasantness already gone. Her hand landed on her chest; trying to hold her heart she undoubtedly felt drop. He saw this and almost relished in knowing she felt as he did. Almost.

“Lestrade, I hope Baker Street is an appropriate lodging for our possible murderer here?”

Lestrade frowned, still standing in the interrogation room behind Molly who stayed rooted in the threshold. It seemed snarky, uncouth Sherlock had returned. Though he couldn't say he'd miss all-too-kind Sherlock. But his inappropriate question was not entirely welcomed.

“Yes, Sherlock, you may keep her at Baker Street. So long as she does not leave the city, she will not be incarcerated. That is, unless she is found highly suspect or guilty.”

Sherlock's mouth quirked up just so in the corner. If they had blinked they'd have missed it.

“Good. Well if we are quite finished…” And Sherlock's hand found its way to Molly’s waist to lead her out. An indelicate yip escaped her lips, but she let herself be led nonetheless.

They walked out, side by side, and straight into the awaiting taxicab. No words were spoken until they arrived to Baker Street. The only disturbance of silence was the occasional whinnying of the draw-horses.

“You will notice a slew of the homeless on this street. Do not speak with them. They mean you no harm, but I suggest no communication with them. It'll make you more suspicious, trust me.”

He was almost talking to himself by the way he was speaking to her so impersonally. There was no warmth in his words.

“You will tell me everything. From the beginning of your life to now. Not to spare a detail. Not one. If you are not the killer, the person framing you knows you intimately. This is personal sabotage. And if they are successful, this is personal and murder.”

She watched as he continued to stare out the window. They had stopped now, but he shushed the cab-driver to finish a thought.

He looked her in the eye and spoke very clearly. “I will ask a plethora of questions and you will answer them honestly. I will be able to tell otherwise. And until I can trust you again, we will be sleeping separately. Though I doubt that is much of a punishment.”

Molly could understand that a serious case had serious demands. She also understood that Sherlock didn’t waste time being compassionate to the people whose cases he took. Though he was often cold, the way he echoed her words right back to her had her feeling an unpleasant chill course through her body.

“Mr. Holmes—Sherlock,” she called out, stopping him from opening the door. ”I promise you the full and unadulterated truth, and any question you ask will go without pretense. You have my word.”

With a nod he burst forth from the cab and made for the entrance of 221 Baker Street. Molly followed right behind him.

It was a place often revered in the eyes of the public. The occasional whisper of The Great Sherlock Holmes and his quaint place of business, and occasional rest. Alabaster marble facade, dark trimming, and neighbouring a delicatessen no less. He was holding the door open impatiently while she marveled at the gorgeous home.

“I assure you it is just as beautiful inside, as it is out,” he huffed.

Shyly she made her way in.

“Sherlock? Have you offended Molly yet ag—” John was clearly going to reprimand her husband, and for offending her no doubt, but stopped short on the stairs noticing that they came together. ”Oh, hello Molly!”

His bright smile was incredibly welcome. The faces for the last twenty-four hours were either indifferent or disgusted. John was becoming a familiar comfort. She appreciated his unending support of their marriage and the way he defended her.

“Hello John,” she smiled genuinely at him, “I hope it isn't too much of a bother but I will be staying here for some time.”

He stood a little straighter and his brow furrowed a little deeper. His eyes sought out Sherlock's, but the dolt was staring at the wall, looking pleased to have proven John wrong. Though as to exactly what he was being proven wrong of, he had no idea.

“John, I am pleased to tell you that we have found ourselves a ten. A bloody ten! And Molly, my Dr. Holmes here, has become the suspect of a crime that she is innocent of, I have no doubt. The Yard thinks it is so simple and I find it hard to believe that this is such a simple crime. We are dealing with a clever criminal after all.” He clapped his hand together and made his way past Molly and John, going up the stairs. He stopped at the top, just before turning into the actual flat, and turned to look down towards the two. ”I can only hope I discover something vital before The Yard does. It was appalling they kept these murders from me for so long.”

“There was one detail that that I kept from the detective inspector.” Molly was still standing at the bottom of the stairs. Their eyes remained focused on each other. John, on the other hand, was still stuck on the fact that Molly had become a suspect of crime, and suspected of murder no less.

Sherlock’s eyes widened and then narrowed at her. ”And that would be?”

John, still standing on the stairs in the middle of the two, turned his to look back and forth between the two. His eyes landed on Molly, waiting to see what she would say next.

“My courier; I never delivered my calling cards in person.”

And for the first time in almost an hour, Sherlock’s face hardly veiled his excitement. It reminded her of a child on Christmas morning. She grinned knowingly. She was in fact giving him the greatest gift of all—a bloody ten.

And then Sherlock and his billowing coat swooshed into the room at the top of the stairs. She followed, passing John who remained on the steps and heard him grumble.

”Great, now they're both making that face.”

Molly grinned even wider.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my! What kind of trouble has Molly gotten herself into! Hehe... I just wanted to add a few words of thanks to all of you reading this and the next chapter will be out asap!!  
> Myself and my co-writer love you, and your love for our little baby! stay tuned! also... expect sow burn. like the series.... but smutty McSmutness will be the mightiest of rewards for patience:P EEEE Love you all, darlings!


	6. The Unadulturated Need to Drown Oil in Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets filled in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! My apologies for the late chapter. School has picked up for me once again and my work load is bigger than anticipated. Fortunately I have the world's most patient author with me and she let me take all this time to beta without rushing me. Next update won't be so long, I promise. Enjoy! -Danielle
> 
> Yes! Please enjoy! More from me at the end! - Kyndall

John had eventually made his way up the stairs and into the parlor where the Holmeses stood in silence. He was eager to hear the story from the beginning but he remained quiet, waiting for one or the other to begin.

The two were such polar opposites at first glance, it would have seemed like mixing oil and water. Now with their knowing looks, omnipotent perceptions, and need to be abhorrently cryptic it was clear to see they were so similar that the cup was simply overflowing with oil.

And to be completely honest, John hoped to dowse both with water. He has been sat there with them for an uncomfortable amount of time, listening to their fragmented and interrupted sentences that go completely comprehended by all but him. 

“Oh John, it is almost as if Sherlock is talking to himself,” Mrs. Hudson had chuckled mischievously.

John shuddered at that. While it was evident that Molly and Sherlock were very similar, the thought that they might be too similar hadn’t even crossed his mind—one Sherlock was definitely enough.

However, it didn't take a deductive genius to see a few things that set the woman apart from her spouse. She was warm, where he could be uncommonly cold. She was the compassion to his indifference. And she was the selflessness to Sherlock's self-absorbent nature. 

Despite the differences, the two were similar in ways he couldn’t understand. John could only find himself in glee at the thought that Sherlock had met his match. Maybe she could put him in his place, someone ought to.

“What exactly are we discussing? And when will I be included in it?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed, spinning around dramatically from his spot, only a foot away from his wife. “John don't pretend you don—“

Molly stopped him midsentence with a hand to his elbow. “Sherlock, the poor man can't be blamed, we've been very cryptic about the whole thing. Don't be gruff.”

John looked gratefully to Molly. She truly was a godsend. He could clout his friend on occasion, especially when Sherlock knew John needed a thorough explanation.

“Well John, I am far too busy reviewing everything. Ask her yourself what you would like to find out.” Sherlock waved his hand and plopped his self-centered arse on the sofa.

John huffed and fixed the lapels of his coat, sitting down in his chair by the hearth. He thought better of it and took the coat off altogether. 

“Forgive me if I am mistaken, but from the parts I could follow I have gathered you have been arrested for murder? Though you are innocent?”

Molly moved around from the back of Sherlock's designated chair and sat down without hesitation. Behind her, Sherlock stood a little straighter. He kept his fingers together under his nose, resolved quite stubbornly not to leave his cognitive retreat. 

Molly smiled patiently and without irritation when she nodded her head in affirmation. 

“And how has the Yard come to that conclusion?”

She looked down at her skirts, brushed a lint off and said, “They found my calling card on which held my pseudonym: Irene Adler.”

John had to put forth a great effort not to drop his jaw. Instead he laughed.

Molly's eyebrow quirked, but unlike his friend, John would not leave her unawares. “It would be like fate that my highest competition in readership is none other than my mate's wife!”

Her lips quirked in kind. “Yes, I suppose it would.”

His laugh subsided, and a slew of questions arose. However only one word escaped first. “Why?”

“To what are you referring, John?”

“Why use a pseudonym?”

Sherlock turned towards them and began to say, “It's fairly obvious…” but Molly spoke over him.

“It seemed logical. Society finds it acceptable to shame women who chose meaningful professions because it threatens the monotonous flow of the patriarchy. How? I know not, but it seems to be the uneducated opinion.”

John pondered this for a moment. He could only see the truth in her words. Had she written the Irene column in her own name, her education would have become obsolete and she, as a lady in society, would have been cast out and ignored. He frowned a little, the thought of such intelligence wasted burdened him. 

“What profession do you hold exactly?”

“She is a doctor, specialized in histopathology!” Sherlock spoke with such excitement, his face beamed and he resembled that of a child on Christmas. 

“In short, I am thoroughly knowledgeable in biochemistry and determining the cause of one's death.” 

John was, not surprisingly, impressed and Sherlock's look of pride—for someone other than himself—was not helping the sudden surge of awe.

“When had you received your doctorate?”

“Shortly after my twenty-first year. I began my official studies when I was introduced to society, and it seemed even with a proper education I was unwanted.”

Had he been truly watching Sherlock, he'd have paid more attention to the tense spasm in his jaw. 

“So naturally your columnist-persona had to have one as well.”

“Yes. I couldn't very well write as if I were a pathologist without announcing I was—Irene was,” she pinched the bridge of her nose and twitched awkwardly, “Pardon me, it gets difficult to separate the two at times; I'm sure you can understand.”

“I can, though I am curious, did you ever have to create a legitimate Irene Adler? In case someone other than your employers, who undoubtedly knew your true identity, were to snoop for accreditation?” John asked.

“Well, erm, yes, I had a connection forge a doctorate under my pseudonym. As well as several other paper trails to support it. And, as I'm sure you have seen, the portrait printed with every column was drawn by my own hand to add an extra amount of ruse.”

“Brilliant,” both John and Sherlock said in amazement. Such cunning skill was possessed by Molly that it would not be so unbelievable for her to get away with murder. Such a thought came so suddenly that John was unable to keep his next question from tumbling out of his mouth.

“Molly, are you guilty?”

He had expected Sherlock to reprimand him and affirm her innocence, and if he were to review later why exactly he questioned her innocence, he'd realize he had done so to prompt such a response from his friend.

In fact, it seemed Sherlock nearly did defend his wife, but opted to close his mouth to wait for her response, to gauge the truthfulness in her voice. She noticed his pause too. John had not missed the slight, pained tick in her brow before she looked over to the spouse behind her. Holmes simply nodded and looked to his friend.

“Of course she's innocent. To ensure that the Yard come to the same conclusion, we have to investigate this in mindset opposite to that. The perpetrator clearly wants to cripple Molly. So any and all evidence will point to her. Know thy enemy, and all that. And only then shall we prove her innocent.”

John saw Molly's face slip into a mask of strength. He had seen that look before, and it was usually worn by a lanky consulting detective who saw sentiment as a weakness. And it was then he was positive that Mrs. Holmes had fallen for her husband. How he felt in kind was another mystery altogether. 

“Now, wife, let us discuss this courier in proper detail.”

Sherlock's boyish excitement had tempered down, though the light in his eyes remained.

Yes, Sherlock had been right; the game was most certainly _on_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey lovelies! You all have been so amazing, the wonderful response we have been getting from this fic has NOT gone unnoticed! This story is a living breathing entity in my brain and i will NOT abandon it (or you)! Thank you again for all the lovely reviews! Go follow us on tumblr and/or share the fic if you like it! Or just read it:P EEP! So happy to have you peeps! Ok spas-time over! - Kyndall (Deathbyhook)


	7. (Un)avoidable Confessions of Written Words, and (Un)shed Tears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You wonderful people have been so patient that Danielle and I wanted to post this quicker than usual! You deserve it! I hope you enjoy, and we'll try to update soon:) life n' all ya know? Haha love you darlings! -Kyndall

“I know her as M.” Molly said. “We needn't have further introductions. She preferred her secrecies, and as I was also hoarding a secret, I thought nothing of it. I had sent for some written correspondence that may indicate any possible insidious nature or motive from her part. I will be just a moment." Molly stood from Sherlock's chair and left the room, heading upstairs to fetch the papers.

John waited until she was out of sight before he grumbled."Right, of course there's more mysteriously cryptic information. Figures this 'M' woman would be wrapped up in all of this." He picked up his tea and Sherlock dropped himself into his now empty chair.

Sherlock smirked. “Knowing the company you keep, John, this woman seems to be an eligible candidate for matrimony. Especially if she is of the more curvaceous sort.”

John spluttered his tea. "You can be an utter prat."

“It does take one to know one, Watson.” He let out a brief chuckle, and John rolled his eyes.

“You're lucky Molly is only a flight of stairs away,” John said. He furrowed his brow in thought and set down his tea. “Sherlock, were you familiar with the Irene Adler columns?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said and stood abruptly, walking towards the window. He clasped his hands behind his back and looked outside. “I had read a few of the prints, they held value.”

“Hm. Did you have any inkling that Molly was Irene?” John asked, listening for any footfalls on the stairs. 

He saw Sherlock clenched his hands together before he shook his head.

“Having neither met Irene nor known her true demeanor, I had no reason to assume a duplicitous nature in my wife.”

“True demeanor? Do you mean to say that you were familiar with Miss Adler in another way?” Sherlock didn’t even need to turn around to know tat John was practically wagging his tail with pride, having caught the meaning behind his words.

Sherlock turned to see John’s bright eyes staring right at him just as he suspected. “I had a brief correspondence with the allusive Miss Adler. Don't be so proud of yourself Watson, it was nothing.”

Nothing. To John, ‘nothing’ had always meant ‘something’ forSherlock. 

“Is this how Molly came to know of you?”

“I would think not. I was not completely innocent of dishonesty. I used a pseudonym as well, initials of my given name, William Scott."

“And as you never go by William, even marrying under the name Sherlock, I'd have to say that Molly certainly is unaware that you are her own allusive W.S.” John rubbed his chin and continued, “You must tell her Sherlock.”

In the blink of an eye Sherlock was standing right in front of John, who remained sitting, and said, “And why, Watson, should I do that?” 

John leaned back as Sherlock's tense form loomed over him. His face was a contorted fury, but John new the look in Sherlock’s eyes. It was then that he understood: Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were both idiots who had inadvertently broken each other’s hearts.

“I suppose it isn’t my business whether you tell her or not. But if you feel so passionately about it, I'd advise you review the reason why.”

Sherlock stood up straight and blinked, bringing the stoic maskover his face once again. “I suppose you're right, Watson.”

“Right about what, husband?” Molly finally came back into the parlor, her voice eve, papers in hand. Sherlock shook his head to Molly, his way of telling not to worry about it. Without looking her way, he turned to go sit back on the couch, leaving his chair open to her once again.

Both Molly and John watched as he shut his eyes and sank right into his mind, tuning them both out for the time being.

John watched his friend and sighed. He motioned to the empty chair with his hand, telling Molly silently to sit down.

If he had paid closer attention to her though, he would have noticed her too red eyes and quiet sniffle; even the slight tremble of her hands. Instead, he had taken the papers she offered to him and began reading over them. The room plunged into silence. Molly only hoped that her two detectives realized how thin the walls really were, amd how much one could hear from the bottom of the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We love reviews, and we love shares! But most of all we just love you:)) hehe


	8. Murder, Motives, and Modus Operandi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Molly Hooper thought life had thrown all its surprises at her already."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Domestic Violence is a real issue. I am not sure why it is not talked about more often. It should be, because when we talk about it, we become more educated and closer to a solution. We get closer to change. Domestic Violence Awareness Month (October) may be over, but the mission never will be!   
> I want men and women alike to know that they are seen, and they are heard. And that we decent human beings stand by you. That may be a bit campy, but I stand by it! So the progression of the story from here on forward will pay homage to victims of domestic violence in ALL facets. BUT not to dramatize the story, to express that there are people who deserve to have their story heard: PoC, LGBT[etc], and unidentified demographics. Thanks for reading my little impassioned PSA. I hope you enjoy the story.

"Hello, darling." Words dripped out of the woman's mouth like sweet syrup. Her rouge lips stretched into a catlike smile when she saw his eyes look over her dress clad body. On any other night he would have indulged in a woman like this, but something was off. The voice, lips and body were exactly what he liked and yet an unenjoyable shiver ran up his spine. Something was off but he could not fathom what.

The man was out for a walk. He had a bit of a domestic with his wife and in order to expel the mental exhaustion he set out to the dark nearly empty streets. 

“Oh, pardon me miss.” He tipped his hat her way and tried to maneuver around her on the narrow pavement. Unfortunately, they moved together in an awkward fashion, resulting in a fall. 

He dropped face down onto the cobblestones of the street with his hands out to break the fall. The stench of horse manure invaded his nose before he realised where it was. Leaning his weight on his right side, he lifted his left hand in disgust. He thought his night couldn’t get any worse but before he could act on his anger, before he could even turn around to barre his teeth at her, a burlap sack was flung over his head. Apparently life could always get worse.

“Survival of the fittest darling. Don't worry, for you I'll leave the face alone. A courtesy you could have offered your wife,” she said through clenched teeth. “Too bad, bruises and bone would have looked lovely on you.” His eyes widened under the blackness of the bag and without further ado, he felt an increased pressure around his throat as the bag’s drawstrings were pulled tight. His fight for air was a terror, her hold on him tight. 

Before he was granted the peaceful release of unconsciousness, he was given one final painful moment of life. 

The cracking noise of his skull make her red lips stretch out into a lovely smile once again.

The head was bludgeoned only enough to be fatal. The face was left unbruised, as promised, but was nearly unrecognisable due to the stream of blood that had covered it.

She left the body in the street, the calling card tucked into his handkerchief pocket. The leering smile stayed stuck on her mouth.

“My, my Molly. Look what you have done. Hopefully you can use that pretty little brain of yours to figure out my riddle. And maybe you'll see, it is us who are meant to be.”

Her leer turned into a fierce snarl. She pulled out an article clipping; a marriage announcement between one Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper.

She left the scene but not before watching a carriage run over the late Mr. Moran, leaving his face damaged after all.

\-------------------------------------------

“No!” Sherlock startled the company of his wife and John. “It couldn't possibly…” 

Molly set her cup of tea down on the kitchen table and blinked tiredly towards Sherlock. “Husband, as capable as I am of coming to conclusions of deduction, I can only do so much without context and coherent fact.”

Her husband hadn’t uttered a single word since the previous evening. After Molly and John had gone through the papers and together tried to work out an explanation to the predicament, they were unable to think up anything plausible. Sherlock hadn’t offered much as he was stuck in his own mind all night. Eventually they both took their leave and slept until morning, leaving Sherlock behind. When Molly came back downstairs in the morning, he seemed to not have moved from where she last saw him. 

“Ah! Yes, well I was just saying—”

“You weren't saying anything you dolt,” John rolled his eyes and scarfed down his eggs. He had become accustomed to eating quickly when Holmes was present, always anticipating a rapid departure. 

With a small scowl towards his friend, Sherlock continued. “I was thinking that the motive seems unclear as to why you would be framed. Yes they know you but you may not know them and they obviously know your secret.”

John decided he was able to slow down with his food to listen properly. Setting down his fork he turned to face Sherlock. Molly sat up straighter, actively paying closer attention to his monologue.

Sherlock went on, now pacing in the living room, arms behind his back. “Each victim was either an abusive spouse, a philanderer, gambler or simply neglectful. All arranged marriages. Badly arranged marriages it would seem. But why?” He stopped pacing to look at his companions, making sure they were listening to his words. John shrugged and motioned for him to go on.

“I revisited the facts and came to the simple conclusion that both the modus operandi and the need to frame you,” he stepped closer to their table and closer to Molly, “are far more illogical than to simply cover ones tracks or blackmail. Have you considered that perhaps the calling card isn't a way to frame you, it is to quite literally call upon you, Molly? I believe this is a matter of the heart. The murderer is trying to woo you. Dead bodies seems to be a perfect wedding gift, I'd say.”

The room fell into a deep silence. 

John could not believe what he was just told. Someone was in love with Molly Hooper and to express their feelings they chose to murder on her behalf. Eyes bulging and mouth agape, John turned to Molly only to see his expression mirroring him back.

Molly Hooper thought life had thrown all its surprises at her already. She had beat the odds to become a well-educated woman, created a second identity to further her desires, and she had gotten married with a broken heart. She had been suspected of serial murders, fallen in love with someone who was labelled as the most unlovable man and now she had been told that a mad woman with a wild obsession with her chose to win Molly’s heart by giving her dead bodies.

Molly's mouth was agape. No breath, and no movement; utterly frozen. Until the laughter began. 

It bubbled out of her at first; a tiny giggle that shocked the three of them. She covered her mouth with her hand, stunned that it tumbled out. She looked over to see John’s still unbelieving expression, then she turned to see Sherlock’s confused face which pulled more giggles out of her until she was breathless with laughter. 

John gave a few chuckles of disbelief and ran a hand through his hair while Molly attempted to pull herself together. Sherlock remained standing by the table, looking down at his hysterical wife. 

Wiping her eyes clear of the tears of laughter, Molly was finally able to speak. “I’m so sorry, I am all right now.” She cleared her throat, a smile still pulling at her mouth. “I don’t know whether I’m more surprised about the kills of love or the fact that I hadn’t been able to figure it out myself.”

“Honestly wife, I’m not sure how you hadn’t figured it out either. With your brilliance though you would have gotten there eventually. ” The room once again turned silent. Molly sobered up immediately as a blush enflamed her face. Praise was one thing but to have gotten it so directly from Sherlock Holmes was something else entirely. 

She was so caught up in her thoughts now that she paid no mind to the fact that his ears were as bright as her cheeks. John definitely noticed the moment of awkward intimacy between the couple. He looked back down to his breakfast, beginning to eat once again, glad that he was shaken out of the shock he had been stuck in.

Before anything could be said, a man in a very couture suite strolled into the kitchen with an umbrella hooked around his arm. “What a lovely thing to say to your goldfish, brother mine.”

Mycroft Holmes would one day come to realise that his sister in law was nothing like a goldfish, though he would deny ever thinking so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for being cool about me being the world's slowest beta. You are all great, Kyndall is great and this story is great, do not think I have given up with this! Next chapter will be posted soonish. -Danielle


	9. More Murder, Motives, and Modus Operandi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh just get on with it, Mycroft,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lateness of this chapter is completely my fault, as usual. Please forgive me! The next chapters will be amazing and they will be on time, I promise! Okay, just go read the update already. -Danielle

“Goldfish?” The way the word jumped out of Molly's mouth made all the eyes in the room dart to her. She wasn’t the type of woman to just let a stranger speak about her as if she wasn’t listening and standing up for herself was something Molly was used to. Her tone rose in volume as she went on. “Are you insinuating that I am nothing other than an absentminded, silly little—”

Knowing exactly how this was going to end if he let her go on, Sherlock quickly stepped in front of his wife to cut her off. A small squeak escaped her lips as her line of sight of the brolly man was blocked. The man lifted one eyebrow in response. 

“Despite her temper, my wife is correct. She is a free being allowed to do and say as she pleases.” Proud of himself for defending her honour, a hint of a smile pulled at his mouth.

“Then why, brother dear, have you taken it upon yourself to quiet her speech?” He said lazily. Sherlock’s pride disappeared and scowl took its place. He moved to stand next to her instead.

Ignoring the topic of conversation for the moment, Molly was stuck on the fact that the brolly man had referred to Sherlock as his brother. So she was finally meeting the allusive Mycroft Holmes, even if it was under strange circumstances and they seem to have started off on the wrong foot too. She hoped their next meeting would be better.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “As I have been deprived of a proper welcome, and a proper introduction,” Sherlock huffed at this, “I suppose I should justify my presence.”

“Oh just get on with it, Mycroft,” Sherlock grumbled.

Now Mycroft huffed, getting serious, and fixed his coat. “I am here because I wish for you to desist your investigation of Miss M.”

Sherlock, Molly and John perked up, interest written all over their faces. The latter two looked from one Holmes to the other, awaiting a response. 

“Is that so, brother mine?”

“Yes, William, it is.”

He said the name with emphasis, knowing perfectly well that it would do nothing but bother his brother further, unintentionally affecting Molly even more so.

Sherlock felt her body tense up, only just noticing how close they were standing to each other. John still looked towards the couple, waiting for more information.

“You're her employer,” said Molly.

“Yes,” Mycroft was competent enough to read the room and plainly saw the subtext: secrecy was a touchy subject at the moment. “You may ask me any question, but I would prefer you prevent your homeless network from further enquiry on her whereabouts.”

“Her purpose of employment?” John asked, though if his assumptions were correct, he'd not have asked to begin with. He was well aware that Mycroft could be such an overprotective elder brother.

“When I was made aware of my brother’s written correspondence I needed an insider to find out who the woman was. That was her purpose; purely to observe the woman who had won the heart of my brother.” He looked John to Molly. “The irony.”

Both Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were fuming. Their scowls set on Mycroft.

Sherlock saw Molly's red ears and he knew then that she had overheard his earlier conversation. She had more than likely known it was him since the beginning of it all.

“You knew,” Sherlock said. Her eyes widened a bit, but then her brow deepened in furrow.

Mycroft knew his brother was addressing his wife, but to avoid witnessing an impassioned domestic, he decided to answer in her place, sparing Molly of confessing what he was certain to be a painful truth. It was rather uncommon but he was capable of being sympathetic when he wanted to be.

“Yes, brother, but I think under the circumstance it became a delicate situation. I hope I may be pardoned for my prudent silence.”

Slowly, Sherlock walked to his brother until they were nearly nose to nose until suddenly Sherlock took hold of Mycroft’s wrist, spinning him so that his arm was pinned behind his back. With Mycroft at his mercy, Sherlock spoke lowly to him but loud enough for the others to hear.

“Pardoning is a talent under your repertoire. It would be a shame if your writing arm were to be broken.”

“Enough!” Molly all but shouted. Her raised voice was one thing but it was her pleading eyes that shook Sherlock out of his vehement stupor.

“Yes,” Sherlock let go of Mycroft, eyes flicking all over the flat but never looking anyone in the eye, “I believe I’ve had enough as well.”

Walking towards the door he ran a hand through his hair. “Watson, I think I will go for a walk. Fresh air is necessary for a clear mind. Don't wait up.”

Without even a glance in Molly’s direction, he took his coat off its hook and was out the door to wreak silent torture upon the streets.


	10. A Study in Wallpaper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys... I am wholeheartedly apologetic for how ridiculously long it took me to get back to this fic. Please forgive my neglect! You have been so patient and supportive, and it is genuinely appreciated! Sorry for the lack of beta in this chapter. I tried the best I could, but I couldn't wait to post. I hope I'll be forgiven! Bless!

The streets were damp from a rather dull and normal bout of rain. The utterly dreary cobblestones gleamed most unspectacularly under the golden ambiance of street lanterns. And perfectly ordinary people walked along the sidewalks with their attire most likely purchased from the same catalogue; as maroons and plums and grey wool speckled a rather glum palette in the streets. 

All this goes to say that Mr. Sherlock Holmes is bored. Most unsurprisingly, yet disappointingly, bored. 

Had the streets nothing better to do than to have achieved pinnacle mundaneness? Had the people of Britain decided tonight was their night of reprieve from their fascinations of the macabre or sinister? 

Not a sniff of ill intent. Not a stone upheaved in any morbid fashion. Not one bloody distraction, to stay away the thoughts of one Mrs. Molly Hooper-Holmes.

That is until Sherlock and his acuteness for paranoia registered a peculiarly repetitive swish of skirts. A decidedly aggressive click of heels. A striking scent of mint and sandalwood. None too unlike his wife's perfumed oils. Not that he had sampled them himself. And if he had it would have been under the strictest purpose of science... Despite his train of thought, the hairs that rose from the back of his neck gave him cause to turn and look upon the stranger.

"Mr. Holmes," his name ground it's way out from the chest of his stalker.

"Well. This is not been what I had expected," his brows raised and lip pursed. Perturbed with his inadequacy.

"Well, perhaps it's in your nature; the weak truly believe to inherit the earth. But you'll see science proves the survival of the fittest," red lips twist sickeningly. With a flash of silver, and a rather morbid thunk, Sherlock falls to the murky puddles of the street.

 

"What did he mean you knew?"

John seemed horrified a wife could deceive so well. Not for some ignorant ideal of feminine sense of propriety. No. For the sake his near genius friend had missed such a notion. 

"I- I don't believe he understood how brief the knowledge has been bestowed upon me," Molly was finding it rather difficult to breathe. The fastenings of her corset perpetually too tight. All the adoration she'd denied herself to acknowledge had just left the eyes of the man she loves. 

"How long would that be exactly?"

John stood to his full breadth. Could Molly Hooper-Holme's be truly as cold and as calculated as her pseudo-identity, Irene Adler?

"Last night. I had overheard you both discussing his alias. I cannot believe I had been so blind," her voice shuddered then, a tear falling. And John nodded, fulling understanding this heartbreak; realizing she had not meant Sherlock's second identity alone. He searched her face, and her look of despair confirmed it. He would chuckle if he too had not felt contritely morose about the situation. His two friends, utterly oblivious in their love for one another, having suddenly betrayed the other with secrecy. 

"John, will he come back?"

Her panicked eyes find his. Her heart felt like burnt parchment being crumpled along with shards of glass. Caved in on itself.

"Molly, do you love him, as much as I have deduced you do?"

Forcing herself to look away, she stared at the wallpaper. A particular corner curls over to reveal several layers beneath.

She sighed heavily. Folding her fingers of one hand over the other. A second tear falls. John could only smile. Small, but content.

"Perhaps, it is your husband who should hear this confession first," she nodded to his words, "And perhaps, rather him coming back, it is you who should go after him? You have done nothing wrong, but I think he affections may need encouragement."

A blush floods her cheeks, and John finds himself baffled by this woman; an enigma in and of herself. So confident and stubborn, yet yielding and embarrassed by the mention of pursuing her own husband.

"That's hardly conventional," she folded her arms behind her, walking over to the mantle. John rolled his eyes; had these two spouses honestly not recognized how uncannily similar they were?

Mycroft observed the mannerism with sheer horror. God help the world, if his brother and sister-in-law ever propagate. Then another unexpected swell of emotion swept over his senses. 

"When has 'conventional' ever applied to either of you?"

She had the decency to concede.

"I cannot find any fault in that observation."

She smiled. Briefly.

"If I go after him, will he come back with me?"

John and Mycroft shared a long glance. 

"Molly, I believe you have every right to rest assured; Sherlock Holmes is irrevocably in love with you," she had not expected Mycroft to speak. And she certainly had not expected his tone to be so hopeful. She supposed she should be content with such appraisal... 

"Am I to take this as an olive branch? That you'll cease your meddling into my marital affairs? Begin to correct your misogynistic perception of me?"

"Yes. Though I hardly believe the at my suggesting you to my parents and telling them of your need for a husband; even encouraging your invitation to his birthday ball; warrants such an assessment of me. I'll have you know I hold a very loyal subscription to your column, Adler."

Molly's eyes widen abominably. He.... 

"I see," she swallowed thickly, fighting away the ridiculous sentiment she began to feel for her new brother-in-law, "Then. You're forgiven."

They held eye contact for a moment. With equal nods, the truce was laid.

"Not to be an arse, as much as I'm glad family bonds are being made, the question remains. Will you go after him Molly?"

She looks to the door, arms still folded behind her, "Yes. Yes, I will. After all, the game is afoot!"


	11. A Curious Case of Condescension

"Sherleeee," the baritone sings, "Rise and shine almighty Detective."

 

There is a decidedly harsh slap to his cold face, bringing all senses to him at once.

 

Standing before Sherlock Holmes was a man dressed in a shift with rouge smeared upon his lips. Lips that had been immaculate in presentation before. Along with perfectly powdered skin and perfectly contoured cheek bones. Any passerby would have mistook him for a lady, but the moment Sherlock had lain his eyes upon the killer, he knew.

 

"I will give you this, you were sure to be quite convincing for your victims, and you've left me with quite the task," looking the man up and down for more clues he found nothing. Except the obvious one, and he had to test the theory.

 

"I've heard rumors of people such as yourself is it-"

 

"I'll save you the time Sherlock Holmes," the man speaks, "I'm not a transgendered person. Even they are a higher breed than we. The world has yet to see it. But the unordinary only becomes so when the weak and mundane world has made enough spectacle of it... It will take time."

 

"I suppose you aim to be that spark of inspiring spectacle?"

 

"Och, no! What insult it would be to them... I'm simply providing a service to the present society. A wake up call," his bare chin raises as hours old powder catches light from the lone lantern placed upon a table. Then the dark eyes under charcoal lined lids return to his, "you see, Molly... She's like me. But she's too gentle. She uses words where I- faulted as I am in my masculinity- see revolution in action."

 

Sherlock Holmes swallows... So this. This is most assuredly the serial killer. And said killer was most assuredly in love with his wife... The odds were not so much in his favor. 

 

Sherlock took stock of his limbs then. Arms numb and feet heavy. His upper appendages bound above him, whereas his toes barely reached the floor. There was however a very present burn radiating from shoulder blade down... He suspected a dislocated joint. 

 

"Your legs will feel heavy because I've given you a sedative. I can't have you deducing too much and escaping. Molly will be joining us shortly, the clever woman," the man's sneer was lovesick. And Sherlock feels bile rise to his throat. Staying his face, however, in perpetual stoicism. 

 

"Oh Sherlock, don't be quiet now, you never shut up," he pulled a chair beside his hanging form, close. Too close. A skewer in hand, and he only sat a foot away from Holmes' tucked shirt and breeches.

 

Sherlock blinks, "What is it you wish to hear?"

 

The man blinks, purses his lips in contemplation. With a rather uninterested look upon his face the man places the skewer at the thick of Sherlock's thigh. Then adopted a heavy lidded gaze to look up to him and speak, morbidly, seductively.

 

"Deduce me," Sherlock has the sense to shiver then. He complies.

 

"You are a young man of two and twenty near the same as my wife. Your fascination with her began early. Medical school. You were classmates. I would venture to say even partners for practicals, but I need not venture because I believe you sought it out. But you never spoke. This is how the fascination grew. You intended to follow her career, to see her blossom in the medical field. She had not pursued. Of course, your devout nature was appalled and scorned that you were robbed of adequate opportunity to be employed alongside such genius. Then the articles began. And a revelation came upon you. Men. Men kind. They robbed her of her career. Thus robbing you of her."

 

The man only blinked; indecipherable. Sherlock then felt the urge to roll the discomfort from his shoulder or move his lower extremities, but he fought the tick vehemently.

 

The man stands fixing the shift. He paces the room, slowly, and then abruptly bursting into a fit of maniacal laughter. Sherlock jumped. The chain presumably restraining his wrists, jangled violently. 

 

"I can see why she chose you."

 

Either from exhaustion or the residual resentment from the night before, or the growing primordial protectiveness growing within- he know not what possessed him, but Sherlock sneers.

 

"And she was EVER to chose you?"

 

The man in question stops. Chillingly quiet.

 

"I know she would have... given the chance."

 

Holmes nearly vomits.


	12. A Consummation and A Christmas Tiding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter. I just want to tell you all how incredibly heartened I am to know that you have committed to and loved this fic. The dedication to it is not lost on me. So sincerely, thank you! I also want you to know that I hope I do any of this story justice in your eyes and am wholesomely open to criticism and correction... With that here is my last chapter, and my greatest wishes for a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

If he were a lesser being, Mycroft would attempt to interrupt his lawful sister in her attempts to piece together the broader details; knowing she’s missing only one. But he’s not a lesser man, and he prides himself on his intelligence. Molly Hooper-Holmes was a force not to reckon with.

  
Mycroft had assumed as much, upon learning of her, through the correspondence between she and William. For a quarter year he observed the reconnaissance Agent M had given him regarding the affair. No declarations of true emotion. No quantifiable air of compliment. But the simple fascination alone on William’s part, that was the clincher. And Mycroft new, as did his parents, that William’s tentative connection to sober reality, in the healthiest of mediums, was his dependency of others. Something Mycroft himself could never sympathize. Humanity was a lesser breed, for all his concern. But his brother was a fact of life, and conventions were nothing if one even betrayed the sanctity of blood.

Thus, upon gaining knowledge of Adler’s true identity, a day or two of slight searching mind, he’d begun his plan. Sending covert proxies to social events, and salon parties; each with the express order to berate one Sherlock Holmes. Especially after the letters stopped. He had predicted from the last letter, her sniffing out William’s intentions that Molly would be left heartbroken. Prodding him by inquiring his opinion on the “undoubtedly barbaric convention of marriage”; Sherlock had always been so self-involved he could never quite grasp sardonic wit. And he knew from experience, Sherlock would take the bait and answer as bitingly as possible regarding the subject. He was always trying so hard to be like his older brother; if only he knew nature determines quite a lot, and sexual preference is not above the selection.

So, alas, Molly was indeed hurt. Sherlock’s pride was indeed wounded. And his plan was indeed as infallible as he had planned. The two were married after all.

And thus, in the sitting room of 221b Bakerstreet, Molly Hooper-Holmes hums and sighs as she pieces together details from memory. Much like himself and Sherlock, she has a mind vault, and despite her nervous disposition sifting through it she is a divine specimen. He can count on one hand the people with enough willful intelligence to possess such a mind, and Molly is now the fifth.

“I know what you’re thinking, and we are quite in agreement,” His lips twitch; only a little.

“I’m glad,” she looks at him annoyed- and he shuts his mouth.

“Don’t compliment me to patronize me. I thought of it the moment Sherlock brought me here; ‘twas you who asked me to cease the suggestion- you and I both know Sherlock has to ome to the conclusion himself in order for it to be a feasible idea,” she huffs and turns.

“Don’t play coy now little sister,” he observes facetiously as her shoulders stiffen; the word little clearly vexing, “I can tell this is your aggressively passive way of making it my decision.”

She smiles, equally as mocking, “I am nothing if not polite, she is your employee after all.”

“I think you’re mistaken, she was once your employee too.”

“By your design.”

“Yes, and here we are.”

John is rubbing his temples. Why were the Holmes so vexing, and persistent to be as such?

“Will someone _please_ speak in any language that is not derisive or full of implication? Black and white blatancy is a permissible medium of communication, I hope you are aware.”

All parties roll their eyes.

“Agent M-“

“-Oh for God’s sake, Mycroft! Mary! Her name is Mary!”

Mycroft looks to Molly with a look that suggests, the name may be a questionable fact. Molly gives.

“We were discussing the importance of Agent M, and how she may know of a person matching the Irene person during her tour as the proverbial middle-man.”

John nods in agreement.

“So- shall we?”

“John, it’s a bit more complicated than that.”

Molly and John huff; the exasperation practically tangible in the air. Mycroft rolls his shoulders.

“Mycroft, at a certain point you will need to learn that you can let go.”

Mycroft’s jaw hangs, and John nearly squeals from the hilarity of it. But the tense moment is broken once Molly steps forward and takes Mycroft’s hand from his cane; holding it between her own.

“You have done a fine job of protecting him. You have done your duty. But I can tell you, under law and grace, his care is beholden upon me. I’m his wife, and for better or worse I’ll keep him safe,” John watches the elder Holmes brother swallow deeply. Either from discomfort, or from being overwhelmed by emotion he couldn’t tell. But before he could ponder it Molly continued, “I’m indebted to you. You’ll never lose another brother again. I had hoped to wait a few more weeks before sending it out, but I’ll extend our Christmas invitation now. Mycroft, I would be honored if you would come to our home for the holiday tidings.”

As stoic as his face was, the silence alone gives him away. John knew, Molly had won over the Iceman’s heart. It is all but confirmed as he shakes he head.

And all at once the moment is null and void as a cladder happens upon the stair, and in comes running a short athletic blonde with the most angelic cheekbones John has ever seen.

“Mary!” Molly exclaims.

“Agent M!” Mycroft harmonizes.

She looks all around and her eyes briefly pause on John; he flushes. He knows that look. It’s nearly the same as Sherlock’s when he sniffs out a good case. Her flushed ears tell him, he’s not wrong in assuming there may be a tad more weight to it.

“Sir, It’s William-“

“Sherlock- he hates that name,” John chimes in without a thought. Mary really looks at him then, and nods. He smiles, he meant no offense.

“He’s been taken,” Molly and Mycroft state, surprisingly Mycroft’s voice holds more emotion. Molly simply sturdies her jaw, stomps over to the coat rack, and readies her bonnet.

“I’m ready,” John and Mycroft look to one another.

“What exactly is that supposed to mean?” Mycroft inquires, for the first time stumped. Both Mary and Mrs. Holmes roll their dainty eyes.

Molly walks up to Mycroft, chin high, “I’m through with this person sullying my life. My name, my reputation, my cause, and now my marriage. They have made themselves a symbol to fear, but they will no fear. That I can promise. I know at least fifty different ways to kill a man and no one would be the wiser. Let’s see how much that will work in our favor.”

Mary is beaming. John clearly can see who she favors, and he is entirely in agreement.

 

 

“Oh, please, either kill me or desist in your mooning,” Sherlock whines.

He’s still chained, having lost feeling in his eye, where he’s certain there is extreme swelling and a gash. A complimentary wound to the meticulous speckling of lesions on his ribs and chest. A few concentrated gashes over his upper left thoracic cage; just above his heart.

“You should be applauding my poetic nature, she is after all the love of your life,” Sherlock growls, and the man chuckles.

“There is only so many times I can hear about the beauty of her ‘fine silky chestnut hair’, no matter how much we agree upon its allure,” He spits out a rather concerning glob of red. The man eyes the offending spot on the ground.

“How civilized, but I should expect as much. Despite your uncanny affinity for truth, you are wholesomely uninformed,” he’s unlacing the corset and removing the bodice and dropping the petticoat. Sherlock looks away. The whole situation has become somehow too private.

“I told you, I am a man, no need to blush,” Holmes hears a little too much satisfaction in the man’s voice, so he steels himself and looks the naked man in the eye. He is a Holmes, and he’s seen far worse. A man intentionally trying to intimidate him through sexuality is the least of his worries.

“Are you going to hurt her?” the man chuckles.

“No, but I am going to remind her of who she is and what she stands for,” He reaches for a pair of breeches, neatly folded over some sort of furnishing Sherlock hadn’t noticed in the lack of lighting. His swollen eye could hardly be helpful.

“And who is she?”

“Tsk, tsk,” He’s now buttoning his waistcoat, “Sherlock, have you not been paying attention?”

“I have, but you seem so keen on taking her away from me; I would like to know that I have a worthy opponent.”  
The man erupts in a fit of rage, grappling the chair from which he obtained his clothes, and slams it down again and again on the floor before it breaks. Sherlock is afraid. Terrified. He has made an error.

“Have I not bruised you enough? Have I not made you see? Or shall I have to perform surgery on that eye for you to get that she is mine.”  
Sherlock would like to call himself the smartest man on the whole earth, but in this moment he risks all sanity, and surprisingly it is for one reason and one only. One that he’s vowed never to break, for the sanctity of reason; and that reason is sentiment.

Despite his fear. Despite his knowing how fatal his words shall be, the greatest crime of all is to let this insane deluded terrorist get his hands on Molly. OR to believe he could. He leans in close. Trying desperately to emote his rage through both beaten eyes.

“She is no one’s, but her own. And for that alone, she’ll never be yours.”

The man howls, and then his fists pummel into the core of Sherlock. Holmes breaks into a fit of coughs when it’s done, smiling.

“I sat by her. For three years I was there for her. I assisted and aided. I encouraged, silently, but I was her rock. I was her protector. Killed two young men who wished for her professional demise even before her certification… And she ever saw me. But she will now. She will see that I am and always have been her protector. And now I’m saving her from the most abhorrent man in all of England. The man without a heart. And perhaps I’ll relieve you of a brain too.”

The man stumbles furiously over to the table, picking up an uncannily heavy looking meat cleaver, and turns to Sherlock, raising his fist high and ready to come forward.

“Tom!” Both Sherlock and Tom freeze. Sherlock hadn’t realized he’d been shivering. But now, at the sound of his wife’s voice, the rage and terror have desisted.

“Molly,” Tom’s voice has lost all of its fury, and now croons her name. Sherlock could vomit.

“Oh, Tom!” Molly comes forth, all motherly and tentative. Her small hand rising to Tom’s own, where the cleaver gleams under the light’s glow, “Tom is it true? You’ve done all of this… All of this for me?”

Tom’s eyes are wide, and they look to Sherlock, he’s triumphant and bewildered all at once.

“You see? You see me? You can see what I’ve done?”

“Oh, yes!” she exclaims, the happiness palpable in her voice- so real. And Sherlock is spinning. The world is tilt on its axis.

“The wolf? Did you see the wolf?”

“I should’ve known! My favorite story! Red Riding Hood and the wolf. I always loved wolves. I’m so happy you brought me one! Tom, I've forgotten. I'm so sorry, I forgot all that we were. All that I am. Will you help e remember?”

Tom is clutching at her waist, invading her space, and Molly is melting into it; caressing his face and crooning his name in return. And then, horrifically, Sherlock watches as she leans in for a kiss. It’s long and languid, and vile. But her eyes meet his, and Sherlock has to hold his sigh of relief. Her voice is poised silk when she speaks again. She's all  _Irene_ right now. A cunning hunter luring its prey.

“You’ve come to save me from this wolf, haven’t you? Like you saved all those other women? I'm so proud. They didn't deserve to live- adulterous, abusers, neglectful misogynists- I'm sure you thought so too. And your homage to me... I'm thrown, I'm so honored. So proud.”

Tom rests his dazed head onto her brow, breathless, “Oh, yes. It’s for you. Always for you. I knew you would approve.”

“Oh darling, I do” his eyes are still closed as she pecks his lips again, “And you remembered my favorite story... You romantic... Did you know, my favorite versions are when Little Red kills the wolf herself.”

Tom shudders with pleasure, and then his anger and fury return, “Please, may I watch?”

Sherlock watches in abstract horror as his wife pulls out a revolver from behind her under her wrap. Her eyes fixed on the man in front of her. Void of any compassion,“Oh, I wouldn’t have you miss it for the world.”

_BANG._

Tom shakes all over again, now from shock, as a whole is ripped through his chest where she has shot him. He reaches for her cheek, and them his hand slides down her chin to her throat, where he clinches his knuckles. He has enough strength to make her cough and kneel before him, but he keens over her. And for a moment they look like a Greek tragedy. But Molly rips his hands away with a growl. And she turns from him without a thought. He reaches for her in one last futile attempt to be close. But she leaves him effortlessly, no remorse, as she runs to Sherlock.

“Mr. Holmes,” her voice is weak but full of emotion. Genuine emotion, her brows furrowed and her lip worrying, and her hands reach for the manacles holding his own.

“Sherlock!” John screams, rushing to aid her, she settles her hands on his torso gingerly as John unchains him. Her hands provide feeling back to his body, and he can’t find it in himself to hate the pain that surges through his wounds when it does; or resent her for it. She saved him, and he was alive.

“Oh, do stop your fussing, John. The case is solved. And it is but only flesh wounds,” he says this all under the mutual gaze of his wife, smiling as mirthfully as he. He can feel his fingers again, and he decides the most important thing to do is swipe away the tear upon her cheek. And of all the things he could have predicted, being irrevocably in love with his wife would not be one of them. And certainly above everything else, he could not have predicted that he would pass out in the arms of the most amazing woman he has ever known to exist.

 

 

**_One Month Later…_ **

 

John and Mary are sitting in the Library each reaching a novel, he one of heroines saving a wild man from hunters and she of heroes falling to their knees and declaring their humble, ardent love. Both with a hand extended to theirs sides where either of their pinky fingers can be observed, linked. A smile gracing their faces.  
“Should we get them, it is nearly tie for supper,” Mycroft fusses over his pocket watch.  
“Oh, darling, believe me,” Mary chuckles along with John, “When a woman needs to find her laces, and her husband is most assuredly needed, one does not hurry things along.”  
Mycroft shudders with displeasure, “Mary, how uncouth.”  
Mary simple shrugs whilst biting back a laugh, but John couldn’t be bothered. He laughed heartily at the baffled look upon the Iceman’s face.  
“Right,” Sherlock rushes into the parlor, adjusting his waistcoat and collar, “Now that that crisis is adverted, shall we dine?”

Mycroft, it seems, has now become the goldfish as his mouth gapes and flaps open then shut, repeatedly. Mary joins, this time, in John’s uproarious laughter.  
Sherlock furrows his brow upon his friends’ untoward behavior, but is shaken from the mood as his wife’s hands wrap round his forearm. His eyes for the first time in a very long time, comfortable in tenderness. Her own shine proudly as she looks upon him.  
“Yes, supper sounds lovely,” She answers him and gently leads him towards the dining hall before adding, “I’m absolutely ready to eat. Lord knows I’m entirely in the mood for desert.”  
Behind them another fit of laughter erupts, accompanied by none too concealed sound of distaste from Mycroft. The aforementioned company gives them space along the way.  
“Darling, they can hear you,” Sherlock blushes whilst brushing a rebellious curl on her neck.  
“Oh, husband its nothing they haven’t heard before,” she winks. It’s true, Sherlock concedes, the Holmes are nothing if they are not loud and a proud sort. And Sherlock has much to be proud of, his wife will concede.  
He stops them before reaching the hall, just under the doorway, looking up. Molly smiles coyly as she observes the bundle of mistletoe hanging from the perch. It had not been there earlier.  
“Darling you have me at a disadvantage, you have shocked me,” she toys with his uppermost button. He swallows. He quickly gains resolve, before their company rounds the corner.  
“Consider it payback for those riding trousers,” And with that he fastens his hold upon her waist and delves forward. Kissing his wife. If she’s ever doubted his interest, his concern, or his affections, this kiss blows them all away.  
“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Holmes,” She smiles against her lips.  
“Y-yes, Merry Christmas, Sherlock,” and he kisses her temple allowing her to regain her footing before escorting her to their table. It was a Merry Christmas indeed.


End file.
